Issue 69, Spring 1977
We are a nice family.
My sister Brindille, the first-born, used to be married. She had an hourglass which indicated the time when the water of the ocean would reach a secret point on the hill. Every year, at that time, her husband, mounted on a wave, would be making his way home. He was a Black Man with long hair, full of sea plants, with an enormous body, incrusted with fishing nets and whole anchors,—he lived on immersed barges.
Before he embraced us, he made his shining skin quiver and a big fat laugh shook his shoulders. Then we saw his stomach completely swell up, while a stream of small dead fish escaped hissing from his mouth and came down into the apron of our triumphant mother.