Somewhere in the furrows of pink and gray
flesh, nestled between delicate arches of pelvis,
in what was supposed to be bowels and pulsating warmth,
lies the wish for chemotherapy.

Old images of skull-white sundresses
glimmering with the glory of summer days in the world of Perfect Thighs
fester imperceptibly,
buried in some remote corner of the midbrain
that smells like half-digested chicken parmesan;

each memory’s tastefully arranged––
rows of wheat, sharp as disinfectant,
sour with antimetabolites and metastatic guilt.
October levels prospects like a hurricane,
and as your mother balances a salad fork between chalk fingers
the full plate in front of you reminds you of ruptured organs.

The tide pulls in
and sine waves intersect,
surf scalloping and cresting, small,
breeding pearly foam into sea breeze.

Your breath pulls in,
skin washing over collarbones,
ribs expanding to swallow oceans––
another kind of wave.  I feel my soul swell and fall into place.

The tide makes eddies––
gulls cleave shimmering half-circles in the air,
partition wind with meat, voices.
Sand swirls around my feet and is dragged out to sea––

Your skin makes eddies.
Conversations sink like round stones
and your toes open wide, sweeping arcs in the sand.
My heart beats just over three times.

The sea feeds trillions.
Ships wreck and barnacles forge their homes,
and fish school in Fermat spirals.
Plankton absorb sunlight and divide exponentially.

Your liver feeds trillions.
Arms envelope me
and nestle into the hollow under my spine––
I press my lips against your sternum, starving.

The sea pulls out.
The moon's orbit decays
four centimeters every year––
the disparity destroys worlds.

Your breath pulls out.
I cup sea glass and small, smooth shells,
my footprints forming acute angles to yours––
this disparity destroys worlds.

The summer before
her chest hollowed out,
ribs bowing around vacuums,
her lungs ballooning new geometries.

The summer seas invaded body cavities,
feral and chemically sweet.
Her body became a gondola
ferrying pale, diminutive hopes
across the wide strait of your pelvis.

Oceans shifted gingerly,
unborn into the intimate dark
of throats, heart chambers,
marshes between thighs.

She drew the shores around her close, paranoid.

When they got to her
she’d filled her mouth deep
with different types of char: love, anorexia, Quaaludes.
Marrow coagulated and stopped ebbing
with the orbit of the moon.

Her heart smelled like day-old fish.