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I trade for a minus tide which looks like we’re walking on moon. Green shrimp perch on fragile crater of dirt like entering world for first time. When you ask me where I’m from, I never say what I’m thinking. This mud covers my mouth at night, where I dream of missing my correct documents, not having affairs in order. I miss my step here and sink foot into muck, dipping past surface. Dream little fish drowning in my trousers, microbes biting skin. If I’m infected, I’ll shut door and pull blinds. I’ll keep eyes open as long as song spins.
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The artist has made a swirling square – a 20 x 17 inch black ink storm. The grass breathes each of our names, chanting to soft dirt. Circulation, soft, chime of throat. I trade swirling black-ink storm with cloud-like octopus ballooning across awakening sky. Water covered bits of ground I stood on yesterday when I soaked my shoes. Need to prepare, to upright and gather my own ship for this bright and biting future.
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I trade undersea green muck and moss with clean slate. Rain another threat, another law to cover sky. What can we dream of tomorrow, when our belts are even stricter, when our floor floods again. I am too often boxed in plastic, chilled, sodden tasting my own tongues. These days, I wait to breathe out front door, listening to trees flutter, waiting for them to sprout gifts.
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I trade a light blue full-belly sky. We sat in grass and twirled with wind and flower after visiting grand tree. Later in night, driving down tourist strip, we crave late-night fries, searching our pockets for errant coins. I feel mixed up in this box, trying to kickstart a low flame. I am only one this evening wearing mask, holding my breath porously. I’m thinking of what comes in, what goes out. I’m also waiting again for door to close so I can take down my face, lay down my hair.
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I trade another ink-black night with insistence on explaining everything. We could be light-diluted and sea-sparkling, asking for a thousand more decompositions from unfolding future. Instead an agitated sea of milk for at least 45 nights. You insist on slicking surface. The bacteria will grow again. I’m also keeping my mouth shut, saving this breath for now.
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I trade for a story where you stand in wind and do not bend. Instead, little plovers dip in and out of water. We watch as little feet patter on sea’s surface. Beyond this frame is the real storm —glimpse of upturn, disruption. There is no fear ahead, as if calm stretches out for miles, circling peninsula with its orbit.
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I trade sure electric afternoon to walk down sun. On other side an open gate waiting for a missing human. I trade ghost I have been waiting for. I’m imagining each hour spent quickly without much to distinguish. I set hooded light with slow glimmer at door. We quiet down inside and shutter our eyes down, wondering when we will be touched by the century. Instead, shift into next glaring hour, last meal shifting in our blood. Later you ask me what I remember, I pull my mouth wide to fish.
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I trade creature we came across under deck months ago – a shock of bright purple, seastar gripping to pull open treasure. We all saw this omen as beginning to wonder except you shut in our little cab, nursing old memory. I trade now for heat after cloud and fog. I dip my hands in muck, looking for hard shell, a home in mud to eat. I look at my fellow murderers sinking into earth. If I trade in my sharp eye, loud tongue for this long road of green. If I store my tiny shell in memory, filled up with birds I can’t name. I watch down road for something I can’t yet perceive, but fear is coming for us.
I can’t quite make out this cloudy sky. We’re peering out from behind glass pane until released into night, walking through moisture. I can’t quite make out what is blocking us from sea.
Notes: This writing was first composed while at Willapa Bay AiR in response to “Minus Tide” and “Deception Pass” by Juliet Shen and the article “What Causes Swaths of the Ocean to Glow a Magnificent Milky Green?” by Sam Keck Scott in Hakai. The form was inspired by a writing prompt by Aliah Lavonne Tigh.