Really, my ship, the body,

came into the fire before

the pain of it made sense,

before the wood became

heavy with flame and flame

became mine. Really, the body

looked into the mirror,

saw the red ruddy eyes, char

lumping over the abdomen

like prison bars. The body

looked into the prison bars,

then ate the flame anyway,

and anyway, the flame

was made for the thin, taut

flesh of the ship. Ship or sail.

I can’t remember which

because aren’t they both

extending in the direction

of the same island? The wood

of the ship came from an island,

where the women were spines,

thin-armed, dark-skinned, and danced

along a bed of coals. No troubles.

The men watched them, really

watched them, ceaselessly

through the smoke coughing

from the fire that roasted

a billygoat, which no woman

would eat. The flame on the fire

came from logs that were fat.

The billygoat was meaty. Fat.

Not that for eating. I was eating

the salt water from a nearby inlet.

The men brought me leftover logs.

They said it made for a good house.

It made a thick house. If houses

were barraged by a storm, mine

would have more left than the rest

at the ending when the sun peeked

into the remnants of sticks and bones.