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.