Analysis

The thing about the shipwreck
is that it was not a shipwreck.

An old dhow, the Indian Ocean
warm and gentle waters
the Tanzanian coast
a thin green line
in the distance.

Sun beating the
old wood decks. We
went below
and curled up
in the hollow
of the hull. This
false hideaway
and this
false construct. Can you
see that
about it? I tapped out
all the nails
one by one
with an old red-handled hammer
and a countersink.
Out they came
boards loosening
ocean
pouring in
til we were adrift
just floating
in the greenish sea
amidst the boards
the canvas sail
the nails
in my fist
I let go
and down they went.

We were washed
to the sandy shore
and laid
side by side
in the sun
the little crabs
come to see us
and we idly
felt the kelp
and seagrass
within our reach. No hurry
for the interior.

I gathered up
my thick and soaking hair
in one fist
and gave you the
long shiny scissors
I had saved.
Turned my back
and bent my head.
This offering.
I could not read
the exact nature
of your hesitation
only this
such a very long time
at the edge of the sea
here
on this shore.
Finally,
the see-sawing cut.
Mine
and
yours.

Survivors
of shipwrecks
never tell the truth.
It was never
a perfect storm
poor craftsmanship
a drunken captain
at the helm.
Nails
a hammer
a countersink
at the bottom
scissors
buried forever
deep in the sand.

The implements
of our own
undoing.