Swimming as Allegory for Living
When I say I don’t know how to swim, I mean I never learned to do it properly. That they tried to teach me when I was eleven but gave up when I couldn’t figure how to turn my head just enough to breathe, yet not sink. I mean if I accidentally fell into a pool but forced myself to stay really calm, I could probably remain afloat, but it would be obvious to anyone that I was in a precarious situation. I mean I can do some half-assed version of the front crawl in which my face stays submerged for as long as I can hold my breath, while my arms slice through water in unintended tandem, and my feet paddle relentlessly like a runner duck’s, propelling my body forward in small bursts, until it feels like my lungs will explode if I don’t allow my head to break through the surface that very instant to take in as much air as I possibly can, even if the lost momentum causes me to immediately sink like a stone. When I say I don’t know how to swim, I mean I never learned to do it properly. Painlessly.
Scar
Instead of speaking your
mind late that afternoon,
you offer up pointless
pleasantries in exchange
for his polite platitudes.
Just as he ignores how
the heels of your brogues
catch uneven cobblestone
as you approach, you
ignore the way his voice
catches as you leave.
Because it is summer,
you don’t notice how
late it is until youths in
clubwear fill your still-
bright carriage and one
in a soft leather jacket
jostles the Tesco roses
wilting in your arms.
Instinctively, you pull
them closer to you, as if
they were meant for
better than two days in
a stained coffee mug and
one at the bottom of a
bin ripping holes in the
liner. Grief distracts, so
when you exit the DART
station, you miss a step,
promptly slicing open
the papery skin of your
malleolus. And as you
note the same ruby that
marks your bouquet now
trickles down your ankle,
you wonder if this day
will leave you with a
scar, or just a poem.