LOVERS ON FIRE IN A BOAT

Never mind the heat you built with that man
as you gathered all your damages and set light
to your museum of pain. Never mind that you
spelled out his name in the sand. Never mind

that you both jumped off his boat and ruptured
with laughter, not minding the graveyard below
the surface. Never mind the gifts he collected
from construction debris, that cryptic book on

teeth. Never mind the fantasy you constructed
together of building a cabin in the bush, all the
people you’d leave behind. Never mind knowing
that neither of you spoke truth. As for the erasure

of one other, consider it the washing away of tracks
in the sand, and just ignore the she oak, her roots
that protect the bank from erosion. Never mind
the waste of your words and never mind learning

to say discipline in another tongue. Never mind
that life is simpler without him; release his jokes
—infant snakes that couldn’t control their venom.
Go ahead and bury those memories, and bury the

tenderness he showed you when you got stuck
out at sea, because you do that, seek risk to make
sense of the violence served to you long ago—
the many varieties of violence, platters of soft

and blue violence, vintage violence. Never mind
that you shared how deep your rage goes and he
held your stare like a comrade. Never mind that
letting him go is like peeling your skin loose from

electrical wire—current extravagant against your
soles. And never mind that saying goodbye never
would have made a difference anyway. Remember
when he asked if you were still grinding your teeth

in your sleep and touched the hinge of your jaw?
Never mind that nobody knows this but you and
possibly him. Remember when he told you about
the fish with teeth? How he said they could bite?