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.