Richelle is afraid of open water.
She loves to swim, but fears this foreign sea:
It is no chlorine-sterile pool.
She braces herself, faces her fear; feels the grace
in her limbs as they slice cleanly through the dark water.
I am no swimmer. I keep the fine sand firmly
beneath my feet.
The sea is shallow and warm, like blood,
like birth. Unlike home: those frigid, comforting waters.
I wade far enough into this foreign blue
that the strangers on shore become small, generic.
I can almost forget that they aren't my people,
that they speak a language and lead a life
beyond me. But they remember. Even at this distance,
my blazing hair and blue-white skin
give me away. I cannot escape our difference.
Schools of fish tease me like ghosts:
when I give chase, they move just enough away again
that I follow, until I step on a rock I cannot see
and slice open my foot. It hurts, but I am not worried.
The salt water will keep it from infecting.
We walk home. My foot fills with sand.
We cannot read the signs, but do not get lost.
Puppies live in a cardboard box along an un-
kempt alleyway. We stop for the vulnerable puppies,
but can do nothing for them. We move on.