Lesson at Birch Bay by Adria Libolt
On the beach, I gather clam shells with cousins
discarding cracked remnants.
Dad calls for the swimming lesson,
I dread, dig my feet in sand, covered, stuck
Waves wash over my excuse,
leaving no trace.
I lie shivering stiff in salty warm
shallow waters of Birch Bay, Dad’s hand
under my back assuring me I can float.
Greedy waves’ fingers
slimy with seaweed from the briny murk
find my mouth, nose, gasping, drowning.
Like tides, my trust ebbing, disappears
a sun falling below the horizon.
At dusk, wrapped in towels,
we toast marshmallows,
over a disintegrating log
crumbling with dying embers,
casting reflections
on Dad’s wistful smile.
regretting the way I cling to shore’s safety,
I watch, envying the reckless, still bobbing in waves
splashing for their lives, gulping breaths
to stay under in dead man floats.