The Swim

Dip the toes
to test the softness
of Silver Lake,
cool and smooth
like the inside of dreaming.

It is water the temperature of summer
and the touch surrounds me
with the two minds
of fear and longing.

How does a woman dive in
when she has always walked slowly—
each inch of submersion
carefully calculated
and felt fully
as the liquid of drowning
crawls up her skin?

Feet first—
totally shocking and numbing cold
encasing the calves and thighs,
the roundness of the middle,
arms dangling and flirting
until the point of no return
forces a plunge into the chest
and shoulders—
the gasp of release and movement,
the dance to stay afloat
to demonstrage the buoyancy
of flesh and blood
and breath.

The water tastes like wine
and sooths the skin
like iced whiskey
until I am drunk
and want to swim forever in this place
that is so much about the body
that the soul cries
for the gift of a thousand lives
just like this one. . .
here, .alone. . .quiet.

Stroke the water like an old lover.
Push the body toward shore,
caressing the effort,
just to emerge,
to die in the warmth of the sun
and be born to the suffering of water
again and again.

Tomorrow, at the dawn of the new day,
the air will be too cool for July.
I will pull the sheets away from my sleeping self
and climb down the hill toward the ancient lake
to plunge naked and clean again into the light.

If the sky opens and takes me then
it will be enough
to just go.