A fisherman filets his fresh catch 

of mahi-mahi for the tourists. 

They watch in awe as he separates their iridescent scales

from the meat

and flicks each head into a rusted scrap bucket.

The metallic scent of fresh blood 

mixed with July heat permeates the dock.

 

We walk

the dry rotted planks

with our pinkies interlocked.

It’s too damn hot to hold hands.

Or so you say.

 

The ocean is not beautiful.

It’s brackish and dull—

like your eyes.

I feel the sun burning new spots onto my skin

and the air is humid enough to swim in.

Another head of mahi-mahi goes into the bucket with a thud.

 

“We need to talk,” you say.

 

Thud.

 

And I wonder if God would filet us for some onlookers too

if he had the chance.