SWIM

What to make of my feet faltering  

on the stones where my father took  

his first breaths. In moss sticky with life, 

I swallow these words. The hard line of 

his shoulders sinking into fields that once knotted  

his limbs into rope. What to make of the fields. 

Come summer, the sun clings to my skin  

like fish scales or cockroaches oiling the stovetop.  

By the river where he too learned to swim,

reeds dogleg over the banks. Our feet stilling  

in endless currents. How not to drown—  

to be young and have a world

within me. Later, climbing to his father’s grave,

my father lays out bayberries bruised in plastic.  

We burn incense, offer the river proof of life,

having blackened pork rinds and cicada  

shells. My kin in these depths. 

What to make of these legs, kicking to the surface.