A Channel Swim

At high tide in April, we caught the sun’s sleeve 
after school in our underwear—how the water 
chilled our brains into a mushy orchard, numbing 
our toes and fingers purple-yellow like Mardi-Gras 
confetti. I clutched our mother’s neck but then
so did my brother. That’s why we weren’t allowed
to watch Jaws. You shouldn’t watch it either. 
The seaweed rocks below were Raggedy Ann 
monsters waiting to pull us under. I sought out 
turquoise patches as if lapis lazuli treasures
anchored by sand, transfixed by prodigal rays. 
Instead of Jacques Prévert, Grand-Père showed up 
for our picnic decked out in his three-piece suit, 
with his hat and cane. Tomatoes and hard-boiled 
eggs make for great sea food: first bite, then dip 
to salt. I never enter water again without 
returning to our English channel, although 
it’s all chlorinated now. Who will let me in 
to the pool after the gardens close? I’ll even 
admit to liking the safety of lanes, and my fellow 
lappers—that one’s a Phish show without the pot, 
this one’s a mad-dash afternoon cat. Still, at dusk 
it grips me, that cod-fisherman’s fear: each crossing, 
a treacherous routine, salting our scales silver.    

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MAYA RIBAULT is a French-American poet based in Washington, DC. A graduate of the Bennington Writing Seminars, her poetry, including a translation, has been published in Cloudbank, North American Review, Speak, and The New Yorker; was shortlisted for the 2017 Faulkner-Wisdom Competition; and is forthcoming in Bloodroot. Her chapbook, Hôtel de la Providence, will be released by Finishing Line Press in the spring. Her writing has also benefited from the support of the following conferences and residency: Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, New York State Summer Writers Institute, and Virginia Center for the Creative Arts. She currently works as a book production editor for APHA Press at the American Public Health Association.