I shed

fistfuls. Natural

poacher, confused

when I’m born

finless. You hold two

catfish by the gills.

Spear me

in the Muskegon.

The Cougar’s ashtray

lined with buds.

I sift through

your remains,

unbuoyant. You prefer

I rely on

absence. Baited

hooks serve

purpose. Facsimile

between my knees.

You wade in

white rum rivers.

All fish can

be caught,

you teach. Men smell

of citrus and engines.

I’m cedarwood

felled young. There’s nothing

on my body’s floor

but blood. You

wash my hair

as I flop.

And flop.