The Deep

by Rivers Solomon

The surface dweller is in our arms, heart still beating, but we are too far from any land for us to think of dragging it to an island. It is unconscious, and its belly is round with child. We bring it to the surface so it might breathe, but it never comes to. Underfed and malnourished, this is no surprise. We wonder how close it was to death already before whatever devil who captained that ship abandoned it to the seas. The two-legs dies in our arms, but not moments later, its body starts moving, taken over by a spirit or some other thing of the next world. Afraid, we let go. We don’t wish to intervene with the dead. We watch from a distance, feel its convulsions in the water against our skin. Its eyes are closed. It is dead, isn’t it? Yet it moves as if something is inside of it, using its body as a vessel.