ustxtxb_obs_1998_04_10_50_00020-00000_000.pdf

BOOKS & THE CULTURE CamilCe Domangue: 1955-1998 Forward That dazzling afternoon on the green bay my father jammed the throttle of our boat in the marina. He yelled, “Brace yourself!” as we plowed full steam into the solid dock. I bounced forward then whipped back. I heard my vertebrae in a dark crack against the steel. Though I had stiffened and held tight, not one thing could stop my dolly self from that reaction to this thing he’d set in motion. And though he would have sailed me to the stars to save me pain, he could do nothing. He could do nothing. The Next Day I give it names and angles of faces, liken it to the sea, to the sand. There is no difference, really, between the salty amniosis and the beach it rocks against. So why do I split it down the middle, give it a line, a demarcation, separating sea from the color of the air. Why do I divide the water from the heat of breath, stars. 20 THE TEXAS OBSERVER APRIL 10, 1998