Or, if you prefer, bite my earlobe.
Cut your name, a mariner’s tattoo
into the soft of my back. Call me
to return. I’ll cross Atlantic Ave.

Then Badlands. I’ll come laden
with bushels of green clover,
wild berries, my hands as floodlands.
I’ll bring you the avocado tree

stolen from my neighbor’s yard.
Under its branches we’ll eat fruit
fallen to the ground, saving stones
to replant. But, when you tell me

to get lost, I’ll pull up the anchors
send my rowboats out to sea,
erase my name from your night
Dictaphones, gather my clothes

balled-up like sleepy children,
to stand on the other side, hang
my fingers in metal lattice.
If I’m an exile, let me be yours.