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.