The Swimmer

You can't swim in the river at all anymore.
A couple of years back, you remember, that summer with the strange weather. It had been dry for weeks. The kind of dry where the ground turns hard, and the dirt, beyond thirsty, can't soak up the rain fast enough when it comes. And it came, quick and fast, the way it does in August, with thunder and mudslides and flash flooding in the canyons.
Well, it was hot, that goes without saying. And people should know that the river's not safe, the way it snakes through rock and clay. Sometimes there is ground beneath you and then it will just give way. "We knew things like that about a river, when I was younger," that's what my mama would say.

Well, it was hot, and you can't blame folks for wanting to get their feet wet. After all, they were just kids. You know what it's like, when you're still a kid. Hovering between summer and high-school. Wavering between what you tell yourself and what you dare yourself. Just up to the knee, no further. It shouldn't matter that we couldn't swim, we're not going in very far. But you start splashing around and you inch farther out. The mud kicks up and it's hard to see where the rocks leave off, where the water gets deep.
And then the rain came, and it was like a sigh, turning sun-burnt cheeks to the sky we didn't think about consequences or geology, only that the heat was leaving our bodies. The sharp metal smell of rain on the hot rocks, the steam rising up to obscure the banks.
Everything seemed to happen so fast. With the first peel of thunder, they should have got out. I can't remember through the mist if the current picked up or the bank dropped off, or if they just got too close to the edge of the rock, but out of the splashing came a sharper shout, and Willy was the first to start to drown.
And one by one they went like lemmings, carried by the current or trying to save him I am not sure. I never was.
The shouting on the banks began as a deep panic set in and the rain obscuring everything. There was one, of all the people there, a younger man who'd been picnicking along the bank with his father. He was the only one who could swim.
His shirt was already plastered to him from the rain. He didn't stop to take it off. He kicked of his shoes, set into a run, dove into the river and out to where the kids were drowning. It was very hard to see anything from the bank, between the rain and the splashing. People began wading in, courting more disaster.

He reached them very quickly. He was a strong swimmer, they were not very far out, after all. Someone shouted, "How many!?" and others answered, "Three! Three!" but still more were shouting, "Oh My God!" and "Where are they? Can you see?" and so I don't know if he heard, or if he could hear anything above the rain raking across the river in thick, gray sheets. But he stayed out there, hunting around, down then up, until he found them all, and slung them around his body like luggage, and kept their gasping heads up, and started pulling them to the shore. He was fighting against the current, and going out was so much easier than coming in with such a struggling burden.
They were still conscious, you see. Conscious and sputtering and panicking. They didn't just let him hold them and carry them. They fought and gasped and beat the water. It happened so fast, but it took forever.
It took too long; the swimmer got tired. They felt him sinking and fought even harder. They thrashed the water and pushed at eachother. They drug him down to force their heads higher.
20 feet from the shore, all 4 of them went under. He was their savior, and they drown him.
You can't swim in the river at all anymore.

The Way You Sleep I Don't Know Whether to Kiss You or Kick You

1.

I woke up thinking about you.
You hovered in the air
around me,
there and not there,
netted like sleep.

The sheets smelled like you do
but the room was too cold.
I pulled your sweater on to warm me
but it is so full of holes.

Remind me to teach you to sew.

2.

When I woke up again
you had crawled into bed.
There but not there,
you lay netted in sleep.
Cocooned with your limbs wrapped
in my stolen sheets.

You smiled
your children's smile;
too sweet
for such a thief.

Naked and cold,
I pulled on my clothes and
your holy sweater,
stumbled to turn off
the air conditioner.

The white wine,
warm on the table
from last night,
I drank that.
And smoked.

Ghosts and alcohol
picked at my loose threads;
attempting to unravel me.

I watched the light change
as the sun rose.
In the orange and pinks,
I thought about trains.

I weighed their speed against
the gravity of your name.
Certainly,
with the right trajectory
I could escape.

Oh, but where would I go
with this sunrise?
The money in my pocket;
this time on my hands?

My gypsy feet have lost
all sense of direction
now that the heart they carry
has found a home.

My Siren

I saw you there.
In the early morning lamplight,
the whole world sleeps.

Your white feet bare on the rain-
splashed street, your dark hair
combed in a fingering wind.

The red of your skirt spread
to reflect you
in windows and puddles, the
morning-still fountain.

You spin a slow way down the still-dreaming street;
(the whole world dreams)
the whole world sleeps.

With your first low note
a pink edge creeps along the damp
cramped outlines of each crumbling building,
each night-soaked cobble stone.

Building your song, you gather the sunrise.
Clouds pale and blush.
The world waking up.

Orange roses bloom in puddles.
Your naked feet splash
and scatter the petals.
The world turns over
and stretches
and sighs.

The light grows; you sing.
The world opens her eyes
bringing the morning,
now gold halos everything.

The light grows; you sing.
The church bells are ringing.
Your song wakes the water,
the fountain bubbles over.

The light grows, you sing;
dimming the lamps.
So sweetly summoned the Sun
now comes forth.

The world wakes up.

Without you,
how could there be dawn?