by Gwen Head

    （and her daughter）

    I hate the sea. I've always hated water

    even as a baby， even in my bath，

    or so my mama says. She likes it， herself.

    She goes in the sea like a mermaid¹， and comes out

    a monster， rubber fins² slimy with eelgrass.

    The beach boys watch her. They're supposed to watch

    me， but I don't care， for I am queen

    of an island state in the pool， where everything

    is blue， like my bathing suit. It is called Bolivia.

    Outside Bolivia， things are mostly brown

    or green. Our little house by the lagoon³

    has green reeds by it. brown ducks swimming under——

    a mother， her six chicks， like fuzzy bows

    on a sleek⁴ kite tail. Mama duck wears blue

    chevrons⁵ on striped brown shoulders. She is a spy

    from my Bolivia. On the brown lava⁶， wild

    peacocks strut⁷ on petroglyphs.

    It wears their tails to shreds⁸. That makes them shriek⁹，

    tin whistles， from the tin that's mined in Bolivia.

    But mama says they sound like humans quarreling.

    I sleep on the Hide-a-Bed. But we each have

    our own bathroom. My shower takes five minutes.

    Hers takes an hour， the water must get cold.

    I think that's when she cries.

    Some nights a beach boy comes to the door

    to say she has a phone call in the office.

    Each time I have to tell him she can't come.

    That hateful noise of water crashing down——

    I play with my hair until he goes away.

    Tonight was luau night. We got dressed up.

    Mama bought me a muu-muu， blue hibiscus，

    ugly， but she meant well. The little orchid¹⁰

    on my plate was smeared¹¹ with pork fat. After dinner

    the beach boys put on skirts and leis and danced

    and played the ukulele. So did the maids，

    and then we had to pack. We bought Bolivia

    here， so there wasn't room in any bag

    to take my island home.

    We tried and tried to make the air bleed out，

    we even jumped on poor Bolivia，

    but couldn't make it fit. "A four-buck air mattress¹²，

    I'll buy you another." I wanted to shriek and fly

    at mother. But I just said， "There isn't any

    other，" and shrugged¹³ and turned my blue back on her.

    Tomorrow morning we have to get up early

    to fly back——where？

    Having the same address is not the same

    as home. I know Bolivia wasn't a real country

    but pretend I don't. There are better things than real.

    Bolivia was just blue plastic and air

    with a leaky valve. It smelled awful， like chlorine.

    But it sparkled， it stayed afloat. It was all mine.

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