old gods under our skin &
in the breeze of lacerating
brine that scalpels this island’s
chest right down the center
our hands plunge in
warm themselves with its squealing entrails
our champing teeth relentless
with their dance
wet tongues beholden
to a language of dying lovers
the men whose skin
became maps of too little
too late
this our language of inheritance
it echoes in these empty
bedrooms by the sea