michaela sampas
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I grow from a little red finger, which wanted me there for a while, and now holds me carefully to the shore.
When I fall, I land on a blue rock. I know nothing except my hunger.
When I begin running, really running, my gaze begins to sharpen. I start to notice new sensitivities. I start to stomp and yell out and tap my left shoulder, and bang on my chest, and rattle the bones in my knee like beads in a cup.
When my ribs start to split down the center, and my lungs brace against the tin-white fingers, begging to be let out, I find my body knows more. When my small toe blackens out from the center, and splits off into dirt, I find my feet know much more.
Looking back, it was even my foot that found the urchin first. I was emerging from the water, nearly bare and down to my knees. My skin was loose and hanging low from my bones, only thinly lichened, and when I bent down, my knees caught on the urchin’s sharp back and were pulled off due to their heightened tenderness. I was still wet, my mouth could draw the precise shape of the shoulder by memory. The first time I met the urchin, I split my lips trying to get a new taste.
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