Ocean Dream #48
He came from the sea. His voice water, splash, spray, and crash, crash.
A lull sometimes when I’d swim on my back, legs out, arms out, starfish to his sparkle. I’d float in perfect balance when still, and then I’d dive into his lexicon. Small fish in jewel colors with intelligent eyes looked back at me, questioning. I was scared of a clown fish, swam away from it. It did not chase me as I thought.
And then he’d speak from a mount of rocks, sea-glass words in blue, brown beer bottle glass, sometimes a broken shard from a perfume bottle that smelled of oyster shells. I’d often cut my feet on his words and get pinned in by the tide, wait on a rockery, watch condors fly with their absurd wings, wait for the ebb to dash back over to the sound’s mud. My footprints embroidered glyphs on rocks.
He would leave me then with a few foamy words, green at the tips. I’d kayak over the wakes of this language. Sometimes I’d make it all the way in, but mostly I’d capsize, swallow salt water, cough up froth and spit and pant on the shore like some gill-less angel fish, mouth open sucking air. Then I’d wait for the storm he’d become, rainy words drizzled me and I sat in silence and listened.