It’s 4 in the morning and you’re pulling

at my bedsheets again. I’d like to think

I’m the boulder willing river water into

a million little Vs, the shapes of teeth on

parted lip, buzzing. In my memory, you

appear on my doorstep dripping, shoes

tied up with seaweed and pockets weighed

down with shells. You say, you are safe.

Or maybe I say, I’ll be brave. Either or, it matters

not, for I’ve gulped down a glass full of fear

of sharks and now there’s an earthquake

rattling my bones. We play hide-and-seek

and you find me—I’m the bee. I say buzz

to crack you up and bam, rows upon rows

of teeth are chomping me down until your

mouth is full of sand. Oh river, dear river,

do cease your coursing currents. I’ve been spat

out and now my limbs are in pieces that

look like ten shiny marbles, fraying as they

fall, tracing my name in the river bed as they

roll down and down. I’d tell you to follow

these maps, but you already know where

I’m going. River, river, just say my name to

let me know I’ve been found.