In blind black like a ballad, reincarnated with gills, born again in watery graves, smooth in the waves, Johnny, Stella and Sancho swam through the delicate serifs of the S-shaped Atlantic. On they drifted, fluorescent, spiny.
On they swam, in the green origin water, Mokum Verde, liquid in their belonging, far from purges and autos-da-fés.
The Canary archipelago drifted away, the Atlantic sailed away, they swam beneath the waters of the Strait of Gibraltar – Granada on the left, North Africa on the right – into the Mediterranean, up along the coast, passing Valencia in shades of azure and the deeper maxixe, and back into Barcelona harbour.
They skimmed the surface of the water. Johnny, Stella, Sancho, holding hands, splayed out like manta rays. Hello, Barcelona. I’m back. Bon dia, how
