How You Write A Tall Tale
by A. Martine

been bragging about holding water
been talking smack about coughing and chewing ash
been boasting about all the cyclones i ate
they say all boats rise
but mine must not have gotten the message
riddled with holes i made when i was bored
out of all my senses
all i do is sink
and still i find it in myself: to be shocked

but shock is a plateau
the most predictable of tediums
i’ve been chasing shaky grounds lately
after it left me nothing could upend my life
after i uprooted my life nothing could make me shudder
after the shuddering ghost came to visit, dragging fingers on the tinny wind chimes tugging on the tips of my hair strands tugging on my toes in time to music: nothing could make my ear sing

so i went to sea instead

i was called bluebeard in a past life, resisted paper tiger men, wrestled red into white like the brave little tailor swatting giants with a lie

that mythology, i dreamt and authored it, rollicked in it rage-ful and frenzy-ful, the story changing at every swirl and tide: black girl crazy girl drifter mermaid sailor holding waves, pantagruelic exaggerations

once i sailed from dakar to chicago by the strength of my certitude, buffeted by purpled currents i was determined to elude, john henry making waves

i spent the month of august, my eyes picked apart piecemeal, in fits and starts, to distract from the picking apart of my grey matter

instead i ended up with multitude-eyes and multitude-vision, impossible to escape and to keep from seeing better; argus panoptes would have been impressed

lost three, five years, ten years lying in bed, letting life wash over me, letting guitar and piano gather dust, pencils stay sharpened, watching films and watching my life, like a film, sail by

and they say: if you teach yourself to stand taller than you are, ground your toes into the sand even when your beanstalk sways, they’ll never mistake you for icarus again

even at the cost of honesty, even at the cost of vulnerable — fuck vulnerable, hasn’t done anything for you in this life

but you can only go so far until you come to land again

and again, eventually, you will have to walk — sealegs, vertigo, motion sickness be damned

so why don’t you?

you have to start somewhere
this is not a roadmap
a resolution
or an ironclad promise
it’s just a start, just a start
laid out timid on the page
put it away for a while and come back to it when
and only when 

the water: it will always be there when you again need to kiss shores and sail away

so claim this notion
gently
pretend it’s a new pair of shoes you’re breaking in
seven-league boots slick-shiny, so taut it bends your toes inward
so taut you feel leather on pink bones with every leap
walk around with it, take it around the block, see
how it feels
unnatural, yes, but is it something
you could get used to? 

that’s the first, real honest question
you have asked yourself of late
and when you pen it, it may just
— hear me out:
help you curb that wave.

A. Martine is a trilingual writer, musician and artist of color who goes where the waves take her. She might have been a kraken in a past life. She's an Assistant Editor at Reckoning Press and a Managing Editor and Podcast Producer of The Nasiona. Her collection AT SEA was shortlisted for the 2019 Kingdoms in the Wild Poetry Prize. Some words found or forthcoming in: Berfrois, The Rumpus, Bright Wall/Dark Room, Metaphorosis, South Broadway Ghost Society, RIC Journal, Lamplight, TERSE. Journal, Gone Lawn, Truancy Mag, Crack the Spine, Confessionalist Zine, Ghost City Review, Rogue Agent, Boston Accent Lit, Porridge Magazine, Camwood Lit, Feminine Collective, Anti-Heroin Chic, Capsule Stories, Figure 1. @Maelllstrom / www.maelllstrom.com.