Bubbles and Clay Isabella Rodrigues
I was born near the Ocean. On the Ocean? To the Ocean? By? From? I like to think: My father was a fisherman, dangling his rubber legs off the side of a boat, blowing smoke out of a dusty pipe. My mom was the Sea, slippery and rageful. I feel wrong, split in two. Down the middle. I am a human woman, with all the normal functions. A heart, brain, lungs, etc. Quite boring. Like my mother—my feet are not made for shoes. Like my father—my eyes are forever hungry. I am made of clay and bubbles. Every tide fills me up, but only ever halfway. One leg stands in the mud while my mouth bellows out delicious sea foam. Perhaps I am a fish. I gape open-mouthed at the full moon and feel a concerning tug to... lay eggs? Something strange like that. Sometimes, I sweat vegetable seeds and oak acorns, and other times, I disintegrate into tiny wisps of salt and blow into the north wind. When I am in the transient in-between place, I stink like chopped up bass on bloody pink ice. I have roots underneath my heels. They like water, but not the smelly pond kind. But I think sea water kills them too. I don’t know what is good for them. I find myself licking salt. My tongue itches for it and then my humanness screams and scolds me for this. DRINK WATER! It yells. It’s quite boring.
47
