After the accident,
I dug and dug for the shirt
I had given my entire life to.
I used needle-like precision,
unearthing land,
praying please, God,
don’t let it be destroyed. Please let
the shirt just be
alive, submerged.
I tried grabbing any box
(degraded, ruined) that I stepped on,
saying, dear God, let there be
a shirt hiding. Dug through
creamy styroflakes, tight
in my hands, budding
like flowers, getting larger
and larger, getting harder
and harder. Like bone.
I opened my hands and prayed
for some surcharge,
some static cling,
my hands sinking
into my shirt, the shirt
rising (like a soul
out of a dead body)
into my hands.
I took off
all my clothes. I rubbed
two sticks together
and started a fire
out of the perforated shipwreck.
I made a sign. Has anyone
seen my shirt? Its skin
was blue — like milk.
A stranger said,
Was it Aryan blue?
I shook my head
left to right. The stranger said,
You’re not wearing any clothes.
I said, Where’s my shirt?
The stranger said,
Was it baptized?
I shook my head up and down.
The stranger said,
Well, that’s a relief.
The stranger pointed at a puddle
of melted clothes. I refused
to believe him. Another stranger said,
You’re naked. A third stranger said,
You’re shirtless.
I invested
the rest of my life looking for the shirt
(Jesus, it must be cold or wrinkled
by now), pulling fruit up by their tangled roots.
I gave it so much time.
I could have died of embarrassment.
