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“Fishing” | Brick Magazine, 2020

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 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
off 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, to share. This body
between us is dangerous, a writhing prehistoric

wound. Our bodies are weapons and we know that,
we know that no one wants this fish or its live birth,

just its teeth around our necks.