I slide it over my head
it smells like mahogany
I roll up the sleeves
trying to make things
fit in small
places
they don't belong.
my collarbones drown
in the Pacific Ocean
my ribs are buried under
an avalanche.
(in a forest made of the red wood)
a spine as long as a
Hana waterfall
water dripping, down my thigh
I remember, you asked from what soil,
my roots have come.
you look at me and see an island dressed in
tart passionfruit
and sweet gardenia.
you swear you've never been
here,
you swear you don't know
of salt water.
I put on your shirt,
I’m choked by the collar of
your lies,
you know of salt water because
you know of the waves that I have
cried, the salt water that has eroded
rivers into my body.
I put on your shirt
and I’m home.