The spring tide
falls and I pick my way
among the blades of oyster shells
to wade into sloe water.
Ink-dipped invisible below
my breasts, I push off, swim
twenty strokes, then stretch
my legs down to gain a toe’s hold
on the island’s thatched muck.
Here the water’s clear
and crabs pin-prick quick passage
over my feet.
The tide ripples, encircles
each thigh with light
lip prints of foam; leaves
debris to mark me. I turn
and wade back racing a wall of fog
that casts broad tentacles
onto the flats yellowing the scattered
crates, the oystermen bent
beside their trucks; the far marsh
obscure in resinous luster.
Between shore and shore,
I travel as strangely as sound.
At the neap, I pull
and pull against
insistent water. Still,
four hundred yards from shore,
the wind throws spray over
my quick breath as I float,
gather strength, then pound ten strokes out
and choke. Reaching down I find
water on water—the tide,
though blind, is no lover
drawing without desire
toward the open sea.
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Per Contra: The International Journal of the Arts, Literature and Ideas
Swimming Loagy Bay by Laurie Rosenblatt