You wash ashore,
cheeks sun-bleached,
half-obscured
by a burst
of barnacles
as brine rushes in
the gash
of your neck, and out. Unbodied
must feel like living anew. If I pry
the shells open, is there anything
beneath the undulations
on your eye? But there is nothing
to worry about; ugliness
is not a fault—to exist,
undesired,
unbothered. Within,
let go of your need
to squelch
through folds among folds
for the algae bloom.
How many nights
have you longed for a body
of land never claimed, once
the wasting flesh of the old had drowned?
Was it ever
a dream that you
would be
a muse,
sprawled over a beach towel;
a beloved,
bikini untied in the heat of summer;
an image,
couched between horizon and shore.
You would have been
unharbored elsewhere.
Of course, let us
be honest, you are regurgitated
by the ocean herself,
a skull of what remains
of a siren’s call. Here
you are, and here I am, lured
by how appalling you are.
Rayji de Guia is a fictionist, poet, and illustrator. Her work can be found in Asian Cha, harana poetry, The Pinch, and elsewhere. She was a poet resident at Sangam House in 2019 and a fellow for fiction in the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference in 2021. Later this year, she will be a writer resident at Rimbun Dahan, where she hopes to complete her first collection of short stories. Currently, she is based in Metro Manila. Find her at rayjideguia.com.
