Swim Class
Dec 15 2010


In swim class
back when I was a Tadpole,
hoping for a bright red badge
to sew
on my swimsuit.

We were earnest listeners, learning to swim.
They showed us how to crawl, tread, kick;
the daunting fly
was for older kids.
How to throw a big orange life preserver
past the drowning man,
then pull it back
shouting reassurance.

I always pictured him splashing madly,
like blood-in-the-water
a froth of sharks.
But sometimes
it’s just a look in the eye
of quiet desperation.
Parting the water like a sharpened knife,
slipping silently under
the undisturbed surface.
Maybe twice
before he vanishes.

And sometimes, a frugal wave,
like a benevolent Queen
to her adoring subjects.
The final gesture
of a dying man,
I acknowledged with a nod of my head
an open hand,
politely waving back.