Fire and Sea

I laugh at your need to keep your knees covered, shorts too long, pants too short, colors muted and dark. At night, I unpeel you, uncovering hair grown along scars from childhood scrapes along coral, swirls in patterns of fronds, cerebellum, a reef of skin for me to swim over.

You mock my cravings for raw chili peppers, burning my lips with each seed, the oil, a glistening inferno on my tongue. At night, you pluck each tiny red body from the bush, run it along my skin, memories of taunts and screams, sugar, milk, bread, a conflagration never quenched.