we are at the mouth of a crocodile river and a sting ray ocean.
i take another ballerina float and scream before i know exactly why i am screaming. a long tentacle has whipped around my leg, fast as a shooting star and just as hot. one hundred tiny nails attached to a thin leather strap wrap around my ankle on up to my thigh. you are suddenly beside me, carrying me back to shore where i take stock. i touch my leg to make sure it is still there and when i have verified that all my parts are still my parts a laugh wells up and out of me. you shove me over onto the sand and say you were sure that an alligator had chomped off my leg. it was, i say, an alligator. . .or a jellyfish.
two days later i could still feel the tentacle around my calf.
on a tuesday in another country, i remember the sun in my eyes. i remember the desire to be weightless and the fear of paddling beyond the break.
my place is in the whitewater, though i long to be where you are being: up on the board that is up on the wave that is full of long black fish and sea reeds.
still i carry the fear. still you carry me.
still i can laugh at the sting and the salt (while i keep my eyes open for crocodiles)
still i wonder what it feels like
to fly
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