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By series: Bridge St  In Yr Ear  Ruthless Grip

poor. paradise.
for James Scully

we weren't on our land or  with  our  people and so we were always without and  so  we were always our own people and we only ever wore our hearts in our chests   the   fish- camp was so hot and lonely   we   parked underneath   a   palm and climbed onto the bus roof each night to pick coconuts for the dog which he would chew we never forgot anything when we drove  to  the  post office we were never without each other I refused    to     live anywhere  else     I needed to feel that we could  escape  in   a moment and when we did   another    boat would    be      had another hotel room to clean another blood dream carried   only the shrimp man  was awake  as he tended to his pods   only the mangroves   breathed warmly around us