Deanna Young
Swimming Lessons
Our children are bottom-feeders, feeling for a puck
in the deep end. Floridian in fuchsia suits, they surface
fish-eyed in goggles, gasp, and snort blue water.
We sit on the sidelines, barefoot, tapping
chlorinated puddles. Pass comments back and forth
like cards. In my mind we are pressing
the soles of our feet together. I never get my wish.
The lesson is always over before I drag you to the deck,
cup one hand under your chin, pinch your nose,
and breathe myself into your lungs. Our children appear
in garish towels, unrelated, though clearly
the same species: purple around the gills, hair sleek
as sealskin. Whatever happens they will all know how
to swim. It is our job to see that nothing does happen.
In the parking lot after balmy showers, blowfish
bobbing around us in parkas, mouths steaming,
you stretch, and mention how you spent the week
knocking down a concrete wall. With your head?
I wonder out loud. And later, what it takes to get through.
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0 3rd Prize, Poem of the Year Contest 2003
Arc 51, Winter 2003
Arc 51, Winter 2003
