‘littoral’

2666, pp.642. “He drew Porphyra umbilicalis,
a particularly lovely seaweed, nearly eight
inches long and reddish purple in colour.
[…]
There were various species of Porphyra
and all of them were edible. The Welsh,
in particular, were fond of them.”

i had been reading up on instant nori
made from greenish laver, on sugar
kelp and gutweed, when fresh from
recounting litanies of rapes bolaño
pre-empts the real or at least the
non-fictitious and rattles off a list
of literally the very coastal flora i’d
been researching in the reference
section of the family library.

not one to ignore the pinch of
coincidence i took the coastal path
down to a beach with no name,
sat on the cliff waiting for the tide,
watching the gulls plunge and puff,
until i could shimmy down the rocks,
got severely barnacled but
made the sand, and set off to
look for a cave or crevice where
literature uncurls to become some
living moving thing.

in a deep dulsy pool, guppy-full,
i saw a starfish at an unfortunate
aspect ratio due to the refraction
of light through water. what was
obvious was it was a whopper. i
took off my clothes and sank in up
to the hips, hooking my arm under
the rock. he peeled off easy like
a horny banana skin, asleep and
as big as my buttock.

i am not one to exaggerate. i
replaced him and watched him
ponder where to put himself
walking his suckers over wary
limpets, five knobbly underwater
caterpillars conjoined. then i
returned to the cottage where
the book was waiting splayed.
i used two of my legs to hold it
and putting my fifth feely limb in
i submerged myself.

 

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Flo Reynolds lives in Norwich, where she works in editorial and communications. Previous publications include Birdbook III, Lighthouse, and Ink Sweat & Tears.