sin fish


    I thought we weren’t allowed to swim


    as missionaries. The white bible reminds


    us weekly to stay dry, avoid fireworks


    and not ride horses. The cobble streets


    are submerged, a latino Atlantis


    under the mud and ash sea. You hold


    bunches of your skirt in brown hands,


    the floral fabric thick like curtains.


    I can’t see my feet. The water has cut


    them off mid-calf. My socks are drunk,


    bloated and flabby as they cling


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    to my bright white feet, shriveled toes


    and toenail scales. My hair drapes around


    my face like two latinas gossiping, strands


    clinging to each other and spider webbing


    across my rubia eyes. I thought


    I was used to rain, the torrential tears


    of Southeast Missouri,


    where nine inches can fall in an hour.


    But my companion and I are outside, exposed,


    waterlogged and half-drowned.


    We jump from sidewalk tiles


    to the street, throwing up rainbows


    of rain water. Broken cigarette butts float by,


    white rafts in the frothy Argentine sea.


    Wrappers wrap around my ankles


    like stubborn kids or homesick dogs.


    I pull my bag closer to me, rub


    the white plastic bag encasing my belongings


    with slick fingers. Praying the storm


    35doesn’t enter my bag, my books and scribbled pages.


    I thought we weren’t allowed


    to swim as missionaries! I call out,


    my voice lost in the dripping oxygen of the city.