when she sits under a palm tree, i bet the roots die. i bet the trenches flood, spilling murky water all over the island of our memory. i left with a crust of trust: dry and brittle and dissolving. so you lay by a pool with her? artificial water suits that salty scene. that sickening blue, a false reflection of the sky. can’t you smell that? the chunk of flesh she tore out of my thigh? it lives in her pocket. rotting. it’s like she can’t catch a whiff of the sour turn her life took. hands charred from setting other women on fire. dancing in the flames. djing the party.