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.