Mats gives you a look that approaches pity. You kiss him on his brow, his eyelid, the tip of his nose, his chin, his ear, his neck, his collarbone. You know that epidermal cells regenerate every seven years. You have shed the skin of the girl who was afraid of the ocean, the touch of your father's hand on your shoulder, the embraces of past lovers. You keep kissing Mats, all over his body now, pushing seven years farther away second by second, kiss by kiss keeping touch alive.
Woodpecker is a strange bird.
We have in Sweden too. In the water, the familiar weight of the tanks on your back is a presence more than a burden. The boat's hull will loom, ominous and intrusive. You never let it out of your sight. Over the roar of your mouth hose, you can hear when the engine is cut.