GULF COAST PRAIRIE by Benjamin Diaz

Warm waters, wet air, swirl over your skin, smooth and free-flowing through your hands.

The taste of salt flushing through you. Saline snot gags the throat, burns the sinuses.

The body’s instinctual reaction – foreign substance, repel the invasion, expel.

You cough it out, but it sticks with you.

A flutter through the tall grass in your periphery, a grieving cry lilts over the water.

Insects drone gently – filling your ears, filling your mind.

You feel dumbstruck and heavy. Drowsiness overtakes you as the sun sinks.

The blush light forces your eyes to squint.

The world becomes soft, like leaves dissolving in a pond.

The edges of things blur, disintegrate, like flesh decomposing, blooming, sporing.

The sun is lower, piercing your vision with plumes of orange light.

It’s easier to give in and close your eyes.

Heat builds a lightheadedness within.

How do hurricanes form? Warmth, low air pressure, the ocean’s moisture.

Humid air fueled by the dying sun gives the illusion of fluidity.

Empty space feels full. Not-empty space envelops the body.

Swim through it. Open yourself to it. Feel it flood your skin.

It consumes and absorbs.

You disintegrate. 

Benjamin Diaz was born and raised in the humid terroir of Houston, Texas. A proud product of the Bayou City, Ben loves exploring and writing about Houston’s vibrant neighborhoods, parks, bars, and avian life. He went to school at the University of Houston where he earned an occasionally useful Bachelor of Arts in English. He can usually be found walking along Buffalo Bayou, perusing the city’s bookstores, or getting some air on a bar patio.