When the Tides Held the Moon

by Venessa Vida Kelley

“What if nobody taught me how to keep my heart safe”—my eyes drifted to the dark ribbon of his mouth—“from you?” “Your heart in my keeping,” he whispered, “would always be safe.” No one leaned in first. Our lips met and in one bright, moonlit moment, the whole cruel, confusing world dissolved in brine. There was only Río—fin and flesh, salt water and sugarcane—and I gave in to his touch like flotsam washing ashore after an age adrift. It was nothing at all like Sonia’s eager, bruising kiss. Río’s mouth was careful, unhurried, and glided over mine with a gentleness I wasn’t sure I deserved. I’d gotten so used to being treated like I couldn’t feel pain; I was a machine meant to labor until the gears failed and I became just another punchline to a white man’s joke. But I was one of Río’s seashells in his hands—treasured, precious, apt to shatter if pressed too hard.