—Soufrière, St. LuciaWe slather ourselves with mud. Grey, gritty
sludge, sulphurous, squidging into skin’severy follicle, our whole group
giddy as children, smearing each other’s backs,goose-bumped in early March air. The men pull
big muscle poses, women tilt hips, toss up arms,allied here despite what life we’ve left.
We slide into the caldera’s hotvat of black spring water and wash ourselves clean.
Later at Toraille, we brace beneath the waterfall,shock-smacked by rapids dropped 50 feet
onto our heads, thought numbed into pureflash, heaven’s flood funneled
through this crack in the rock, regretsswept to stone steps. I am socked
by this cold cataclysm, I am slap-happyin clap and clout of water, my edges erased,
leaning into plain force. Is this how it feelsto press back against the whole world,
is this what it means to drink?
