In darker water we are parted
every time. This water is cold
in August. Along the beach the
sunblond
stretch and oil every delicious inch
of nakedness. We part. I crawl ashore.
As as a boy I stood every day
on the black wreck of an asphalt pier
and peered at the dark behind it –
that water
I could not swim nor mother watch.
Without a word for what it was
I came to see. To keep my eye on.
The pier was awash with pulling waves.
Ashore, bright children castle sand.
Men and women show themselves.
Couples walk. We coupled here -
dark hair darker in the water,
cold skin, cold lips, her heat
inside and mine spilt there.
The criminal trembling that came with.
What we showed ourselves and parted.
As as young men we stood at the end
of a pier in winter and stared at ice.
I cupped a cigarette's hot coal
and dismissed the readings of dreams he
offered.
We had both begun to fail and failed. Drawn
to the water, driven home by the cold
from the edge my daughter and I would
fish from -
casting into the August evening.
Heavy with her my wife
had me hauled from the low combers
that patiently pushed me back under
as as doomed men we swam out
too far for me. He saved himself
that time. His ashes were scattered
here.
I crawled and failed and she hauled me.
Now the son and daughters we have are
blond.
They love the surf fearlessly. Shout
and play in it. Their castles mount and
fail.
Always I am eyeing the dark water
and swim out to it every time.
Roll and float and breathe on the swell
of its breast. Dive. Taste it.
Crawl back to her through push and
pull.
I save myself now. Every time.
