Sea glass

My life was sea glass. Broken piece of. Who knows
all that’s been deserted, cast off at sea? I was bigger
then, though I’ve long forgotten whatever shape I
held. I tumbled for ages before seeing light again.
Or rather, I didn’t. See, that is. My eyes were closed
for most of it. To keep them open was to have a pair
of windshield wipers attached to my temples,
all sand and water, water and sand. Granules sticking
to the peripherals until having had enough of being
dizzy, I chose darkness instead. Eventually I
blinked one eye open but it no longer made any
difference. The obscurity I thought so single to
myself had lost its dependency on my jagged body.
That’s when I started feeling real lonely. After, I
slept. I slept for a long time. Got used to the hitting,
and the hammering, and the striking. Impact
became predictable. The water was my rocking
chair, my mother and maker, my golden carriage,
rhythm keeping pacemaker. The slow reaching
novelty of light made the rhythm stutter. I awoke,
slowly. Ears popping. My newly round eyes
to match my newly round body, opening, on reflex.
Green, everywhere. Green. I learned, later on, it was
still called green.

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Isabella Cruz Pantoja is a Brazilian writer currently based in São Paulo. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Plainsongs Poetry Magazine, Tint Journal, Heimat Review, and elsewhere. You can find her on Twitter @isapetal or at her local grocery store having epiphanies by shining piles of clementines.