You say there is nothing as beautiful as                   the dry cracking,
the callus of a hard day’s work.                                       My hands speak back through

creases, the folds you bury your face in.                  Every sound
pressuring flesh like a magnet,                                        breaking skin, snapping

a rib that no longer carries                                                 current. I dive to

beat                                                                                                        myself at the bottom. I comb
my hair strands                                                                            with useful fingers. Anguilliform means

resembling an eel—                                                                  nothing beautiful—
this slimy new ocean, this                                                  dark fertile magic, the scaleless serpent

air is all                                                                                               wrong here.