I’m not a good or a willing digger. I am lazy and would likely tap the concrete a few times with the metal shovel before letting it clatter to the floor and heading upstairs for a beer. But let’s pretend I am a stubborn, determined bitch who will get down on my knees and tear at the concrete until my fingernails are ragged. Let’s pretend I use my jagged nails to score the concrete into manageable pieces and carry them up the basement stairs until the concrete floor is nothing but ashes and stones. The wooden stairs collapse into a dusty pile of shingles, like a Chinese fan snapping closed. The electrical lines blow up in blue rockets, and the lightbulb is cold. Sweat runs in streams down my face, and it makes me feel clean.
I tear through the thick clay with my incisors until I hit water. I float naked in the thin fissures of the plates. The water is warm. It is thicker than normal water, and it has body. It is a living body of water that has limbs and knuckles and elbows. This body is a portly woman and she rolls along languidly, like a Renaissance picture of a beautiful fat woman on a chaise. The water holds me on my back and pushes against my neck and under my arms and between my legs. A school of fish ruffles the water under me. Other bathers float by and we flutter the water with our fingertips to say hello but don’t open our eyes. We are plates, floating along with the earth’s plates. We’ve turned into water creatures. Seals or walruses, and the water polishes my tusks a fine ivory. I pull at them like a clever man pulls on a handlebar mustache.
TBC…glow at the center, fossils