#zarate

At night: the smell, the weight, the feel of salt. Much more present than the water on the other side of the wood. Who could have fathomed? Nights spent, not in dreaming of sirens of uncertain sex, but in the eternal, tireless caress of the grains that lurk within the liquid. When the midday sun dries the sails, dampened by breeze or storm, they crust over with that omnipresent granular white that seeps in with the salty mist of the night sea, finding its way into our hair, between our fingers. No place is safe. It burrows into every crevice of the ship, into the metal bunks, into our provisions, into the treasures that we attempt to keep from rust. Its presence is a mocking smile. And when the men strip away their clothing, they find it between their thighs, hidden where groin and testicles meet. The sailors are Lot’s wife. Creatures of salt. When I go to the forecastle, redolent with the absurd heat of bodies that rest in the midst of the swelter, I can almost see it accumulating on their indolent skin. Who has tasted it? Who has savored ocean and flesh in that hidden place? Not I.