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.

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