Before the baby you were a sailor and I was a good catch. Now we take turns watching the horizon for a rescue. All night the dishes rattle and the baby makes a mess of things. Brings us fish, still thrashing in our palms. We calm her with plums, dropped one by one into her mouth. With rum smeared across her gums, but nothing quiets her. You were a drone, and me the sweetest queen. The baby between us, a thrashing hive.