parasocial relationship with the oceanCamila Ayala
all my memories of the beach are memories of my father.
the ocean, according to him, must be handled like wild bear.
stand your ground, look it in the eye and let it look into yours.
lose your tiny existence in this vat of flowing nothingness;
let it twirl you around,
fill your nose with salt, loosen your snot,
wrinkle your fingertips, mat your hair;
let it take your beauty as payment for basking in hers.
it’s funny, being in ocean water dehydrates the human body.
something about osmosis and and the fragility of flesh and bone.
once you are sufficiently parched from the inside out,
drag yourself out on the sand and lay your head down;
stillness will not find you here.
the spanish word for “mixing” is “revolver,”
but translation is a diminutive game; what it means is to re-return.
what it means is to remain unchanged and renewed all at once,
how do you go back to somewhere you never left? how do you border land,
fill it, and divide it all at once?
look, i drew you permanently on my left arm
but some of the ink rejected and my skin got all red.
can i still keep you there?
and when i submerge into the water once more and you see these senseless blue lines
will you still know it’s supposed to be you?