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.