Speaking of guilt, I have a revision of my poem from last week. This version is considerably better, I think. The imagery is stronger. The ideas come through better. It almost seems like a completely different poem.
If you don't think so, all Saint Marty can offer you is an...
Apology
I'm
My son stands on the lip
of the pool, eyes frogged
by goggles, chest swaddled
in orange preserver. Behind him
on the wall, instructions,
how to empty lungs of chlorine,
breathe life into something
blue as fish scales. The image
distracts me, mouth pressed
to mouth, an intimate exchange,
reminds me of the winter
night four years ago
when my son's life began
with whispers, lips, tongues
mingled, coated with "yes"
and "oh, yes" and breath,
so much breath.
My son leaps at me,
at the hungry, green water,
trusts my arms will be there.
He's swallowed by wave,
splash. His body thrashes
in that place of no air
where he once lived,
where he didn't need
oxygen, swam all day
in darkness and drum,
surrounded by the crush
of blood. I scoop him
up, his hands, fingers
hooked in my arms
as he's hauled to the surface
like a prize tuna
after a night of empty nets.
When his head emerges,
he looks at me
with the same look Christ
gave His friend in that place
of olives and moonlight
where one mouth met another,
one breath met another,
where His friend began to climb
to that limb where the rope waited.
My son gulps, coughs, cries,
as if he's just been born
into this world of inhale, exhale,
regret. I stand on the branch,
teeter between the moment
of arms, safety, trust,
and gravity taking over,
pulling me down
and down.
sorry.
Confessions of Saint Marty
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