Blood tastes the same, I found, pressing my lips

first to one stump … then the other. Brackish

tart. Sour iron. Licking her breasts, her hips,

her chin. When it came to combing the fish

and crabs out of her hair I said my prayer,

the whole reason I came. If you can’t do

this, they said, who can? So I came, harbor

master. I came. You still call this taboo

because you lack faith. I call it the bone

crushing depth of the sea. I call it home.

I, whose blood tastes nothing like yours. I call

and call. On the shore. In the crash and moan

of the surf. I’ll lick your stumps clean. I’ll comb

drown your hair. I’ll down with my dead man’s crawl.