Neither Fish Nor Flesh
When the sailor leans over the side of his ship, the waves whisper: be free. the clam shells: be free. the blue vastness: be free. There is something circling it: a thing of scales and hunger and sharp, sharp teeth. When the sailor leans over the side of his ship, he says you will not have me. But the mermaid only offers a webbed hand and says come now, I’m only after a little conversation. Let me sing you a story of becoming. Of how in the marina of my mother’s womb I grew dorsal and scale. Of how even as she tried to feed me vegetables I could only think of men’s bones and men’s howls and men’s ribs cracked and scraped clean.
The mermaid says Let me sing you a story of survival. Of how when my mother left me to the sea I learned to sing instead of weep. Of how when my lungs couldn’t adapt to the waves, I tore them out and grew gills. I never looked back. Not even once. Legends aren’t born out of nostalgia, you know. Nor love.
The mermaid says Let me tell you how this ends. This is where men like you get pulled down under the current. Right underneath this rock is where the water turns red. I didn’t waste anything; now don’t you fret. I made a home out of their bones long after i boiled off the flesh. I made windows out of their cartilage and walls out of their marrow—and if you take my hand now, I promise, I’ll show you the rest.
Angela Cole is a simple girl with simple needs—like warm drinks, firm hugs and green and growing things. She lives in QC, Philippines and is a creative writing student at the Ateneo de Manila University, which is fun, if not a bit torturous. She tweets @mlssangela.
Comentarios