Song of the Young Prostitute, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 1986

I left the world like the lovers in the story did: lungs full of water, heart made of fire. My fingers skimmed the sea’s coat, then fell deeper into its flesh, after they slipped from the mossy rocks, after you held me down long enough to take the life from me. You left after, water splashing high around you like the spikes of a crown, never once glancing back at the girl you drowned, no worries on your mind of her discovery, of what they would say when they found her washed up, her skin bursting blue with touch and coming off in strips.

You were right not to worry. Time passed, and no one came in search of me.

I learned what the ocean really is, a soulless space of salt and water, and then I grew into it, lost myself inside the body.

I am nothing more now than seaweed and scales. I no longer wear my necklace of deeds, each disgrace a yellowed pearl, every sin a coin of gold. My skin and nails and hair have left me here alone. I only live again when I kiss the toes and feet of those who wade through shallow water, or when beachgoers care enough to listen to the drone of waves, hearing my voice in its soughs. Even then, they do not hear my story, but feel my death flow through them. They always run then, from the shore, and quit their jobs, confess their loves, leave the country. They are running from the sea that has consumed me, the tide that, in its curled and purple grasp, extends for a foot, and ankle, to cling to.

I slipped into those waters once. You held me in your hands.