Inside the water I feel it’s beating pulse. It’s all salt. I just keep losing. In the movie the social worker shoves Lilo into the car while Nani shouts her protests; “it seems clear to be that you need her a lot more than she needs you,” he says, and the boy grabs my thumb and points to the cross tattoo on my knuckle. “This means you’re cursed.” Sometimes I look at the clouds in the sky and wonder if I could be so sinless. Absolve me; I’m asking for the rain, I’m asking you to kill me, make me clean, leave me no longer rotten, no longer something so terrible. For years in my youth I asked, what’s the moral of the story of Abraham and Isaac? Was it right for Abraham to have led his son up the mountain and hold the blade to his throat just because He said so? Or was it wrong, was this another message within a message, a warning — question everything, even God’s own word, if you believe it to be wrong. In pain I beg for you to stop but you won’t let up, you just keep hurting me; I think of my mother. What a terrible thing to say. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. That man half-killed her. My father. He ruined her. He broke her. Why is it that I feel her pulse in the tide? Why is it that her pulse is in me? You’re just like her, they say, and you’ll end up like her too. You know what that means. I feel like they know something I don’t. You’re too much. You have to go. We can’t take it. You’ll have to go. I think Abraham was wrong. If you love your son, you would not hurt him. But maybe I’m wrong. Maybe that’s just how God made it.