SWIMMING

 

For me, bliss is a weightless body

a swim kiss sent to sunlit surface

the tiled stripe my unwavering escort.

I think of the people I love

and the time one shattered me, my breast

stroke forming, over and over, the

shape of a heart.

 

It’s impossible to cry underwater.

 

At the wall I somersault into the cloud

of my own bubbles, the balls of my feet

push off the rough surface. I remember my father

tossing me into a hotel pool

wanting me to learn.

 

The hard way is not my strength

though I’ve done things out of

curiosity that look like courage.

 

I used to swim a mile, now it’s

half that. I gave up speed

for the lengthy ritual of breathing

long exhales followed by tiny

sips of air, the scent of grilling meat and

sunscreen and the ghost of my

father’s pipe smoke, him

standing on deck, yelling, “Kick!”