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.
