She’s haunted by a sense of futility
in everything she does. I wait
to be told I’m worthy. You knew
we could never escape, caught
by our hair under glass bottom boats.
By our parents’ white-knuckled grip.
I was drowning in the emerald music
of fish when you pulled my body
from the rocks, their song
a shivering green. Mama always taught
me to fear boys like you. To flee
the delicate danger of my own ankles.
By June I’ll succumb to the language
of bruises. The yearning for the
blue-haired girl to tell me her name.
How she strings key chains
into a necklace. We’re a little
too much in love with objects.
With hurricanes and bicycle spokes.
Tonight the air will be soaked
with honeysuckle. With humidity.
The sound of mothers pinching
terrified little faces. Of fathers
who never wanted their daughters.