My grandfather says we can eat what we kill.
We wade into the water and find a shark.
In the latent night, we carry it home across
the mountain. I memorize the way your feet step
before mine, your plan for leading me
out of this spectacular cycle—fold it in and over
ourselves until our parents finally call for
the doctor. Our love has never allowed itself
to be gutted. Reach a hand in there, all the way,
pull out a heart, lungs, digestive mechanics.
I love your legs in the water. I told your sister
when she fell from the cliff that I wished it
had been me you wailed over, ripping the clothes
from your back, your black skin raw. We are too final
for the gardens they sing about in church, our hands
never coming close to hold whatever hot, shining
city we’re meant to love. This body
between us is dangerous, a writhing prehistoric
wound. Our bodies are weapons and we know that,
we know no one wants this fish or its live birth,
just its teeth around our necks.