for Lindsay

You write directions to the food mart on my hand
The hand knows what it must do

over your chest white sentinels rust like spring buds
The death of the author so kindly disingenuous

at the fish fry I think of us hours before swimming each other
I think of tears blossoming from scolded lonely branches

until there’s a new lake on your grandmother’s lawn
I too am interested in conjuring the living rain

and am losing my fear of drowning
At the fish fry I get lost in the fruit I will feed you