My wife hasn’t slowed down one bit 

she complains that new language 

chafes your tongue like thighs

rubbing on one another she

got pregnant by the fishmonger

so I cut my nose loose—

My son rubs the words 

against his nose his wound open

like a split lip and his split

lip pink like a calf’s pout.

His skin peels off like pith

to show the raw red 

that is a new born child—

My neighbour is a pearl

diver who receives

all who run ashore

in her arms that are robust

like an avalanche

like a fighter jet whirring

like a butterfly pea flower

unfolding like a girl—

Remember you remember

the days before the borders altered.

Remember young afternoons, 

when you and I scattered fruit peels

by the lagoons. Under my

waistline, I must admit,

there was an ocean

sloshing, a seagull 

breaking the sky.

Originally published in Second Chance Lit Issue I