I want to grow to skyscraper heights – wade through the Aegean to Santorini collecting gulls in palmfuls of salt water. The creases of my hands crystalized by the Mediterranean water. I will pick this ship up by its mast – wedge it somewhere between Rhodes and Symi. To spread my big fleshy body across Caldera, let the steam permeate my world-weary skin. Use the layered-cake cliffs of Fira as files for my curled calcium nails. To pluck the horizon free of its white pocked pimples. Send people crashing into the waves like the Greeks during the Akrotiri eruption. The military ships will speed between my toes, crushed by my tree trunk phalanges.
The water is swaying silk tie-dyed by the skies blue, made a darker hue by the blackened shell floor and somehow you can see the bottom, even from my view. The economy would no longer matter and the Turkish government would silence in fear of my wrath (so nearby), leaving its people in peace; one can only hope. I will leave the Greek islands for the goats, the cats, and remove the muzzles from the donkey snouts. Those who build houses atop the Earth’s mountains are far too arrogant for survival. Not everything is a Lego Land. And maybe the fish will return to these waters once the humans are gone.