The children who live in boats

chew salt-dried fish and licorice root,

their ocean veins tracing a map

to where trees grow roots and arms.

The children who live in boats

have mothers and fathers and little sisters

who they call em bé, which always means

the same thing in any earth bound tongue.

The children who live in boats

sing songs about the mountains,

about elephant queens and the stone

mausoleums where their grandfathers sleep.

            Behind them, a shore lit up with rotting wood and fire.

            Before them, sand glass and razor-edged cliffs.

The children who live in boats

float their red paper lanterns out to sea,

the candles flickering before they are

swallowed up whole by the night.