Start with the sharkbite, I say.
She starts, I can remember
the water turning red. Swimming
back to the beach with one arm.
Did she leave her arm behind? I ask
because I am curious. I am a voyeur
into this ocean, this sharkbite, the labor
of being permanently destroyed.
There’s a star in this lake and it’s my body.
There are gallons of sunlight, saltwater.
I try to imagine swimming
having just been ripped open:
three crescents, star-sharp,
incomprehensible rows of teeth.
Would I feel my arm in that mouth,
leagues of skin, warm
entrails, my hand a new
set of eyes.