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	<title>tongues of the ocean &#187; Nakia Pearson</title>
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	<link>http://tonguesoftheocean.org</link>
	<description>words and writing from the islands</description>
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		<title>Curtains</title>
		<link>http://tonguesoftheocean.org/2010/08/curtains/</link>
		<comments>http://tonguesoftheocean.org/2010/08/curtains/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 01 Aug 2010 04:02:01 +0000</pubDate>
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				<category><![CDATA[2010 June Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[prose]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[special feature]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Nakia Pearson]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://tonguesoftheocean.org/?p=2194</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[We’ve been looking at funeral homes lately, you and I.  We imagine the people inside, condensation dripping from their foreheads like sweat. Lipstick and face powder painted on leather. They wear their favorite indigos and mustards like skin, as if they have all their organs intact underneath. They sleep in oak coffins for a century.  People come to view them like art.

“I prefer to be cremated. I don’t want anyone getting confused thinking that they can hug me,” you said moments after we drove past the fifth one on Mackey Street.

You wondered if that was a very Christian thing to say and instantly marked the sign of the cross on your chest.  Doing this made you take your right hand off of the steering wheel. I leapt into your abdomen, shot sugar juices into your limbs. You swerved a little off the road, and pulled back in as an old woman in a lilac wide-brimmed hat walked into your car. I pulsed in your feet. You barely missed hitting her.  “Jesus, almighty. Protect me from Satin,” she yelled, and hit the hood with her lilac purse.

It was Sunday, and the lord was with you.

<font color=white>.</font>]]></description>
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		<title>Train Travel</title>
		<link>http://tonguesoftheocean.org/2009/12/train-travel/</link>
		<comments>http://tonguesoftheocean.org/2009/12/train-travel/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 06 Dec 2009 04:02:17 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>webmaster</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[2009 October Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[prose]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Nakia Pearson]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[You sit for a long time just watching. Sometimes, you get up, walk to the open door, and ponder fate’s effectiveness in predicting your actions. You might jump out and roll around in the green carpets, dance with the fairies that make the grass sway. You fancy chatting with the village women in saris fetching well water. You imagine biking on the skinny roads that dart in and out behind the trees following the train tracks like a smart missile.

We are in secret war: the postcard view and the tangible terrain. ]]></description>
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		<title>The Elusive 26th Birthday</title>
		<link>http://tonguesoftheocean.org/2009/10/the-elusive-26th-birthday/</link>
		<comments>http://tonguesoftheocean.org/2009/10/the-elusive-26th-birthday/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 04 Oct 2009 04:02:01 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>webmaster</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[2009 October Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[prose]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Nakia Pearson]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://tonguesoftheocean.org/?p=1233</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Today the sky leaked its white blood again. It seeped down the mountains like a wound, sluggishly hugging the primary colored store signs and the putrid florescent trash that lay on moist asphalt like corpses not yet cleared away. It crept in, fingering my bones like the moonlight falling on faces when there is no other light. It wrapped the world in white gauze, healing it. I stood on the balcony of our inn, perception clogged by white, and waited.]]></description>
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