Miriam Gamble

The memory of sun, it is what they subsist upon down where the jaws snap blindly at whatever passes, where drifter is a meaningless term and to hunt is to proffer teeth and tongue and ghost-lit lantern into a sea like liquid wind, without prior compass of the way the wind is blowing. Should they be gifted with a corpse whose half-spoilt flesh holds distillate eternal summers spent glittering in the euphotic zone, they will give gross thanks and, in their way, be holy. In the cartography of sea, they are kin not to dragons nor the Stella Maris but to your own bright band — yes, you there, eating your sunlight secondhand from a long-gone grocery display, drinking it from the guts of lazy lemons.