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Survival Swimming, or The Teleology of Water
Disrobing in Water
Shoes, those awful sinking ships,
get yanked off first.
Then peel your pants down
over your hips, one clinging leg,
a breath, then the next.
Now your legs are free to scull
like lateral fins, to scissor kick,
or cycle the pedals of an imaginary
bike as you knot the bottom
of each pant leg: two tight, soggy fists.
Toss overhead by the open waist
to scoop in air. Float on this small,
jury-rigged raft until help comes.
Tired Swimmer
Employ the dead man’s float: face down,
backbone skyward, you’re a jellyfish,
arms and legs dangling,
purple-poisoned tendrils. If short of breath,
tilt your head up to gulp light.
The rest of the time, lie still, conserve
energy. When water’s chill
begins to penetrate your body,
protect vital organs: clasp
knees to chest with arms, fetus-like,
cocoon or spore, a small round thing
floating between two worlds.
Underwater
Fill your lungs and descend, swim
beneath the surface. Follow the bottom
feeders. This will help if you ever have
to swim under burning oil.
Somehow legs’ up-and-out, arms’
pull-and-glide will save you
from apocalypse when images of
Revelation enter suburban
pools, school natatoriums, tranquil
lakes, the changeable sea.
With held breath and expansive
heart, you can choose
life beneath devastation,
emerge like a mortal specter
in a Renaissance work, pushing,
straining up from earth to reenter
flesh and bone on Judgment Day.
When the waters rise, you
will rise with them,
beyond the burning world.
Return to Volume 4.3
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