THE SWIMMERS

Before birth, you swam
in sacred circles, your fingers
like starfish arms.
Your bones were still being made
as every sailor buried at sea
is unmade.

You are a swimmer.
As you harden your face
when you must leave me
for streets and halls,
I can imagine you
alongside the salmon
fighting your way upstream
against stone and white froth,
driven by the same
dark whip of honest need.

Love, you are a swimmer.
If we were dropped
suddenly and inexplicably
into a glacial sea,
I'd grab your seal-slick shoulder
as you filled your cathedral of ribs
with enough song for two,
and we'd slip beneath
those quiet giants
of iceberg, our swimmers' bodies
skating blue and upside down.

Jenniffer L. Lesh
(c) 1996