by Wanda Deglane
where are you right now? find it. feel the earth spinning slowly all around you, your body so
smooth and still you can actually see its rotation. listen for the sounds- waves crashing. a child,
finding her mother. the whales searching for home. feel the sand, slipping beneath your fingertips.
your body shifts and swells like sweet dough, rising in the oven. taste it, taste it.
sunlight, dripping from the sky into your mouth like thick honey. the bitter medicine you took as
a child, the tears of your mother, salted and dreaming. cold lucuma on your tongue on a day
you’ll never meet. and smell the wind carrying back moments you’ve already forgotten. the salt
of the waves now cradling your body, the rain in the air, hellbent on coming for you. vanilla,
heavy and saintly, calling from the kitchen, and the smoke from your father’s voice, calling from
upstairs. and then open your eyes, see it all: the tiny fish, dancing circles above you. the children
of tomorrow, soft and warm and cooing like doves, whole hands curled around your smallest
finger. and see yourself, reflected back at you in the skyscrapers, your body at once both
meaningless and irrevocably precious, melting into the lavender sky and the dying light of the