Shore

It will continue, he said,

even when the water breaks white,

even when the surface currents seem

to be going the wrong way.

The river, I tell him, is gray, and the ocean is for others.

I have crossed the river on stones and planks,

while others swam, inviting me in

and I dove just to please them, pretending

I could swim too.

My path is broken; the white caps are hard

there are too many gaps, always

I must find the connector: I use wire and wood

and rusty nails, these broken rafts, 

whatever it takes to cross.

I don’t know tides or currents,

have never understood how the river flowed;

perhaps it does not.

There is only the leap, and my heart in my mouth:

I can’t walk this hard water or swim,

and I will never see land.

I will be your dolphin, he says,

and you will not drown.

How can I explain that

I am not afraid of drowning:

I have drowned many times, come up,

gasping for air, and dead, many times:

 

What it is is that

I can’t swim

and the water is hard.

It will continue, he says

even when the water

seems to be going the wrong way.