What if there were an ocean
in the middle
of North America?
I don’t mean some prehistoric
inland sea. I mean
a vast modern body of salt

water

that cleaves the land
between. Would families
still sell mango slices
on the side of the highway
in early March? It’s not funny.
And it’s not a bone. The nerve

of you coming here all elbows
and full of suggestions
for how to stop
the blood from seeping
through the diagonal seam
I accidentally carve

into my thumb
with a vegetable knife
after everyone has gone
to bed. We decide
we must go swimming
in the silent sound.

You say I wear the red
line so well. I say
you are a fool and a liar
for claiming to see colors
in the dark. I don’t realize
the pier piling is there

till it’s too late. You hold
your breath so long before
exhaling a whisper—
the Zamboni driver qualifies
as a friend. I’ll never know
why you mention him now.

Do you really believe
he’s a cannibal?
My mind slips forward
three months when I will be
searching through a coastal airport
for the bus to the ferry

to the island.

Everyone will be laughing
about trying to herd leaf sheep
with a dogfish so close
to a sandbar. I will swear I see
their sweet little black eyes
staring back at me

the first time we float

together past the harbor
buoy. Green to embrace the lefty
way our signals will cross
over, of course. Chloroplast
kleptomaniacs will light up
our lives without complaint.