Explode, expunge, but hold on tight
We woke tangled in wet dream.
I was wearing that sweater and you were undone,
sewing your skin to my thread.
Anyjar a spill, ship a swell.
All I remember is our rocking
was in sync, like a hagfish’s five hearts.
The problem with our drowning is panic
reaches the surface too quickly.
We waded, then scattered from each other
tearing your skin, leaving me bare-chested
but speckled with goose bumps and needlework.
Of all the hurdles, the hardest was to gather our things.
(Our eyes met over the ocean but who could tell water from glass?)
(Our arms became baskets to carry sheets of paper, our photographs.)
(Our ears resisted waterlog; we maintained parallel swimming paths.)
There was disagreement in my thinking
that we would reach for the same possessions.
What makes us different from our extensions
is that they are supposed to remain outside of the jar.
But we both grabbed at the emptiness—never enough
for two—as though we would go our separate ways
as some do after a flood or a drought or a miracle ends.
You planned this shipwreck, this idea of breakdown and buildup.
But I accused him of planning the escape.
Anyjar, have you lost interest in our home? we ask
as our throats struggle for air, struggle for a language
we can agree upon using in moments of distress, of instress.
The silence has been putting us to sleep for years.
The roof tiles became lifeboats, but I didn’t expect you
to float one over and cradle the Anyjar under your arm.