What were you thinking during that last dive of summer
When your fingers, poised to slice the surface, led the way,
Breath held, back arched, eyes closed, toes pointed,
the warmth of summer's sun upon your shoulders.
Did the water altered world sound more persuasive of peace
or did you think that underwater you would remember a time before climate change,
Before your own brokenness rushed your chest at every chance;
A smokeless burn your lungs could almost thank you for?
Aren’t you holding your breath still
and your lungs, are they
still burning like California except that you at first intentionally chose this burn?
You knew your silent scream could travel faster in water than air
and wondered could you somehow let it out without it drowning you,
But it would drown you anyways you look at it.
Besides, beneath the surface of it all
The waters soothe-- a womb like grave-- enveloping every nuance of flesh
And making secrets out of you, secrets you didn't mean to keep, I think.
As a child you shared the bathtub with your siblings,
And they would count as you ducked beneath the bubbles
And cheer as you felt the pressure for escape rising
until in an explosion of bare chested victory
you emerged
and they announced that you had reached the
minute mark!
What is a minute now—stretched out, wiry grey—
an ocean of tears streaked with remembrances,
salt lines on bare skin,
an arbitration between desire and duty?
And how have they stacked up;
In favour or against? Who knows?
And did you ever, for a minute, think
That dive would be your last?
That the currents would test you in a holding pattern of saline buoyancy but no escape?
The ripples of your kindness still lap upon my shore.
Gasp—but isn’t that a life lived well as any other in the end?
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