The Anatomy of An Aguamala

I had a dream that sharp, circular waves like the patterns on Bea Szenfeld’s costumes were breaking upon the shore. They kept cutting my feet and leaving indentations like half-crescent bite marks on my ankles. Only five of my toes were painted, stained blood red against the dusty beach. I remember being afraid my other toes would be lost amongst the sand.

There was a boy with me. Freckled and ginger-carrot feathered like Bea’s. His skin was pock marked around his neck like a cascade of tiny, red-stone spiders were marauding across his bones.

C: Spanish Moss