How to Swim
When I see you,
I see an ocean, a body of water
without end. I imagine losing control,
nearly drowning in your depths.
(I almost drowned once in a backyard pool.
Flailing limbs reaching for a garden hose, chlorine biting the back
of my throat.)
For many months,
I stood at your shore and watched
how your tides came in,
only stepping in to knee height
reminding myself I don’t know
how to swim.
(The truth is, I learned to swim many years ago,
in back-to-back semesters of Swim Gym.
I learned how to pull my arms in close and then outward
in big arcs, gliding forward.
I learned how to kick with brute force,
how to swivel my head from left to right
catching air on either side.
And when I tired, I learned how to put my hips up and my head back,
so I could float.)
Then one day, in the back of the bus
after a long day of hot sun, dusk
pulled my head onto your shoulder
and I stayed.
When we hit a bump, and your hand floated to my cheek
to make sure I was okay
I wondered if I was being brave
or simply forgetting to be afraid.
(There was a moment when my body hit the bottom of the deep end,
looking up through the layers of water and sky and tree.
I felt peace.)
Later, when I told you how I felt
and the words started pulling me under,
your response was a life jacket:
Poco a poco, paso a paso
Like the philosopher Dory says,
Just keep swimming.
There is a fishing village on the coast of Jalisco
called Yelapa, named after an indigenous phrase meaning
where two rivers meet the sea
There, I asked the Moon how to cope with the tides
She said, don’t swim
Flow.
Follow me.