A mass of tangled limbs we cling to each other. I hold tight to baby sister as we toss about the dank floor of the vessel, its boards pelted by the spray of high swells. Her sweet scent distinguishes her from the others, she has the smell of a blossoms freshly picked. . Just yesterday we were lingering along the dirt road that leads from the old school house to our home of splintered walls and concrete floors ignoring by instinct the slant eyes of men driving an old van closer and closer. Our school books scattered on the path, muffled cries drowned under rumbling motors. Miles from home we are fed La Rochas to soothe us into sweet fevered dreams. Waking in a perfumed world of pale pink sarongs and silk fans. The slits of a man’s eyes behind angry walls.
copyright H. Rene Hunter
