The Taphonomist

Doesn’t it bother you, I ask, watching a mud crab

pick its way deliberately across your scalp

and vanish behind your ear, all this waiting around?

I am sitting on the rocks, watching you rise and fall

with the water, like breathing. The sea

has salted itself across your flesh, a lace veil draped

over the mottled swell of your shoulder.

All this salt water doesn’t half make a body feel bloated

you offer, plucking barnacles from your eyes

and tossing them into the water

and the whole drowning schtick does get old after a while

but we get by, us floaters.

Your head bobs gently against the rocks

as if to prove a point, and your oyster gaze

rolls upwards. Doesn’t it bother you –

and here you pause, seawater

dribbling from your mouth. I look away. The taphonomist

has given it three days before you come apart

and I will be leaving in two. But for now

I will lie down next to you on the blue moon beach

and I will take your waterlogged hand in mine,

and all the jellyfish will collect on our skin

like glossy little cataracts

as our bodies wash in and out and

in and out

on the tide.

Sasha Finer is a second-year student at the University of Auckland, where she studies Anthropology and Politics & International Relations. As of the time of writing, her greatest ambition in life is to never become a politician.