TANICIA PRATT
I flow horribly crimson for the first three days. Under the full moon/this mahogany skin stains cherry red. The soft edge of helix/blushes aan sunburns. Fainted scent. Breath/overheating from the quiet rage of my exile. Only the sea makes me forget the garden. Only the moon morphs this body into a forbidden fruit/I will offer. Sunday finds me, again, bloated/floating in the water/as diamonds bounce off the reflections of light aan wave aan his shadow black aan grey/circling twice the shore for fresh meat. Good mornin, how are you? In our waters, sharks speak. In this town, women learn early the delicate dance with beasts. When to move, when to freeze/when to respond without speech/with a smile fine enough to make fillet out of him. Until then, I am still. For not all of them bite. Most wash up on the sand beside you. Fin, sticking in the wind/sweat, beading down a jawline— strong enough to break sugarcane/open. It’s something different about you. I wonder if he means my scent. His mouth, dry aan parched by the heat. His teeth, exposed. His eyes, watering with hunger.
