It was the right ocean but the wrong island—instead of rising suns, there was the son of islanders: wild-eyed and wild-isled, grunting in place of words—every syllable guttural, every bark signifying a smash. The monster billed from Polynesia in hopes that we would ignore geography and the limiting stretch of triangles across Oceana and concentrate on him—thick-nosed and stoic—a body so wide it looked as if it touched both guardrails as he lumbered away from something much more majestic than where he was hailed from: a certainty where there should be mystery, a forgetful scooping together as if grabbing fistfuls of salt, as if you mistook the granules for sugar. Him, eating the dough anyway: shoveling the mush into his mouth despite claims of it tasting terrible, despite having no need for any of this. Him, eater of men, swallower of everything.
Cover Page Footnote
"Yokozuna and the Calling of Names That Aren’t Our Own" was originally published at Booth.
"Yokozuna and the Calling of Names That Aren’t Our Own,"
Booth: Vol. 6
, Article 3.
Available at: https://digitalcommons.butler.edu/booth/vol6/iss2/3