Lakeside

“Swallow, Dad.

You remember how.”

 

The warped dock hosts a shadow—a reflected dock.

Bold stripes of light and dark skew with the waves,

twisting and untwisting—a luminous link

of DNA from father to daughter.

 

Summers at the lake

he would take my hand and lead me

past rocks at the water’s edge.

 

Now, I take his hand praying

there is still the cell-deep memory of water,

still the pull of tides in the body.

“Swallow,” I say.

I wipe his chin when he spits.

 

The rough planks of the dock please me.

Below, the undulating bars of light reveal fugitives:

splayed clam shells; distressed bits of glass; secretive snails;

and sand-colored shiners, almost translucent.

These fingerlings flick their tails and dart away

beneath the weight of tiny bulbous eyes.

 

What do fish know of fathers,

or of the memory of water, older than the fear of losing it?

For there is that, as well . . .

Jumping from the dock into his arms.

 

Later, leaping from the end.

Leaping beyond the edge—beyond—

where the lake bottom suddenly dropped.

Treacherous waters, there in the drop-off;

ledges to be trapped under, and turtles

            bigger than any child—

            or so he told me.

 

Perhaps it was his fear of water, or of my growing up,

for beyond the dock was the Lure—the raft

where sun-burnished bodies lounged.

Beautiful. Sophisticated. Adult.

 

To get there required faith—

and strong dog-paddling, until I was close enough

to fling up a hand and grab a rope.

 

Hard-won, I would lean my face against

its wet woody-smelling side,

my goose-pimpled arms shaking from the effort.

There, I’d revel in a temporary grace

and forget about the swim back over bottomless dark.

 

Today, I discover bubbles floating on the surface

with the dross and dirt of days, have two reflections.

First, the intense prick of light playing over the sand.

Then, barely noticeable, a sulking shadow twin.

This is the patient otherness of froth,

and there is no reprieve from that usurper.

 

Dad—tanned and laughing.

Hands beneath my belly, holding me afloat.

“Paddle! Kick your legs!”

 

Fifty years later, the planking creaks

as I lift myself from the dock, my legs stiff.

How can this be? Our bodies are mostly water.

I should lap, and swirl, and rise easily through this life.

           

Instead, I hold water to my father’s mouth. “Swallow!”

It is graceless and messy, all he’s forgotten.

One hand beneath his chin, I hold him afloat

telling him . . . paddle, kick your legs!

 

For docks—real, reflected, or remembered—

lead outward beyond unconcerned bathing gulls

and frightened fingerlings,

beyond remembering and forgetting,

            to the edge of the drop.

 

Shutta

August, 2008