We didn’t want to live previously loved
So we drove to the harbor with our anatomy in cardboard boxes
The car coughed and sputtered and we talked about
Ambient barometric pressures
The way things can be carried so far into the ocean
That they disappear completely
We walked out on the salt-slimed jetty
With crabs shuffling around our feet
Then I took the knotted rope of my intestine
Which squeezes like a snake when her lips touch me
And put it out to sea
“It looks like chewed sausage links,” she said.
“It looks like a swollen garden hose,” I said.
Then she took her traitor’s lungs
Lungs still lined with hooks
That catch when I move her hair from her face
And they fluttered into the oil-slick water
“Gutted balloons from birthdays,” she said.
“From funerals,” I said.
Our hearts were at the very bottom
Sticky with blood and congealing decisions
We gave them a Viking burial
Watched the cardboard coracle bob and bob
By inches into the greasy saline
Then the flesh floated on
Drifting slowly equidistant on the waves
We walked back along the jetty
And sat in phosphate-soaked sand
With our hands not touching
Our faces thickening
And above us the sky grew dark
And each of us watched our own allotment of stars
Rich Larson is a 19-year-old student living in Edmonton, Alberta. His novel Devolution was selected as a finalist for the 2011 Amazon Breakthrough Novel Award. When not writing, he is a productive member of society. More of his work can be found on Figment.com