Canned mermaid tail,
the rusty wombs of a laundry mat
and mancala match of coins and scales

it wouldn't be the first time
i kissed someone through a veil 
of kelp-- she sang like mosquitoes
around the wick of a green candle--
she had eyes stolen from the smooth
throats of conch shells--
cold fingers of market fish
cozy in beds of ice--
and from the wayward March colored 
pier we talked about
all the beaches we'd used
to kiss boys and how many 
soapy quarters it took to dry my 
striped sweater at the ending of another
night where i submitted myself
to her--
and the blue crabs took off their
shells to show off their legs
to us-- we told them they were
safe here on a numb unwanted beach--
each night she said she'd run away 
with me if she wasn't bound 
by fish scales-- 
she plucked them off like mancala
beads when she was angry at her body--
i told her i do it too--
measured out the flakes of
my skin in the cupped palms
of a wooden playing board--
i moved to a the island
as a pilgrimage-- a return
to the rusty womb of a laundry 
mat where i was first devised--
the blue bloody horseshoe crab
girl
who orders pineapple sundaes alone--
tears out the mangled 
hearts of the peaches to plant
around the parameter of the beach
house-- 
i've never paid the rent 
so other families
come to boil the crabs
from the big pot in the kitchen--
scoop ice cream from the carpet
in july-- i wait for the cold
to take them home so i can be
alone with the mermaids again--
i am a horseshoe 
and horseshoe
crabs are like ghosts--
when the ocean is shivering 
no one
notices me washing sand from
my waist in the outdoor shower--
bringing in the crab
cages from the dock--
matching socks 
on the floor of the laundry mat
i think of her again-- 
i think of kissing her fish scales 
and the motion of the machines--
laboring like the fat wrists 
of a shoreline-- to wash 
away the flower petals of
another MacDonalds bag--
i lite green candles for her--
i tell her i'm ready with my
butcher knife and mancala board
whenever she is--
it's january now and time
to be new and give up on
boys we've kissed on beaches--
she doesn't want to be another
tale for me to tell when i decide
to go back to the land--
when my peach trees are as tall 
as the pits i've swallowed here--
we played mancala so she didn't
notice the knife--
until the candles went wobbly 
and thin 
and the mosquitoes came
to drink our blue blood--
died on the porch-- turned
to quarters for me to do my wash
in the morning from another
fat-wristed womb-- 
i saved her a pair of corduroy
pants-- a striped sweater just
like mine--
we canned her tales and tossed
them back to the ocean
to keep them cold for pizza toppings--
kissed in the outdoor shower 
and i taught her to yank 
the pits from peaches-- 
she said it was so liberating--
like a crab-- peeling off a shell--
clink of a mancala marble--
this is what we do with
our scales-- 
she asks if it will grow back--
her tail she means--
and i tell her i'd grow 
gills if it did--
sell my clothing to the laundry
mat to have something to 
keep her hands busy--
no one wins mancala-- but
we all grow back
our fish tails-- hate these
scales-- cut one
by one while the blue crabs
kiss each other in 
a pot of salt and water 
on the stove--
it's july again so people
remember the ocean--
still drying everyone's 
clothing in the oxidation
sensation of the hands of the
laundry mat--
write to me when i leave--
remember what it feels like
to swallow a peach pit--