Rattling minivan back doors slam, children run
ahead of their mamas, never minding the
twigs lodged between sandal and sole, sweat pooling
on smudgy cheekbones, be the one down to the
river first. Remember your reflection in
the sky-stained waters for posterity, and
when your children demand a story, you have
a picture behind your pupils, though murky
from the diatoms. Velcro sounds ripping through
all eighty seven degrees of Fahrenheit,
the damned sandals now lonely, sun-baking on
granite. The sludge you’ve displaced from a stagnant
puddle marks your ankles, the tardigrades are
clinging to your colossal limbs, and they will
remain with duration and eternity
worthier than that of flimsy human skin.
There is something in the dull tang of flattened
Sprite, something in the wet polyester on
your abraded thighs, something in the kid’s voice–
he doesn’t believe your mama is forty–
something that says: you are nimble to depart.
Soon you must swaddle yourself in muddy beach
towel, by dint of a red-frothing sunset.
Inhale, way down to the point your hips level
with all the poison ivy. Now you must leave
your sweaty shedding in the water, your blood
too, worthier than breath, so the diatoms
affix to the thin speckled sheen of hairs on
your shins. Smile wide at this even trading, and
the river will gleam; end. You can keep the old
pieces in your prone, ephemeral fingers.
—
Natalia Coronado-Mercer predominantly writes fiction and poetry. She’s an unpublished high schooler, but has won awards and competitions on a state and national level. Nevertheless, she has been featured in her school’s literary journal, and always takes the elective that creates it. She lives in Virginia, enjoying people, food, music, and the James River.
