You’re on a boat. I’m on the dock. I bring you plates of pumpkin bread! as if my exclamation mark could fool you into wanting it, when we both see it’s a plate of plea, a slice of anchor to ingest. You stare at me as you bite. Your eyes grow wide like a falling man. I’m standing on the dock, telling myself you need me here to remind you there’s a shore, but your wide widening eyes—I grab the gunwale, and as my hand grasps the edge, my ribs, my ribs collapse, sucked into a hole I know I’ve fallen through before, chasing my father’s boat as it pitched and rolled, too far for words to reach. How will you get back if I’m not on the dock? if I’m not on your boat? if I’m floating away on a raft of old bones?