One day I took you from your mother’s side
(you won’t recall the fertile estuary’s seethe),
Down where the minnows surfaced with the tide
And we labored in the muggy air to breathe.
You weren’t quite four, while I was old and smitten
(you won’t remember and you’ll need to know)
Sick with love. I read NO SWIMMING written
On the sign, and yet I let you go.
Naked as a newt you paddled in my arms
While I kicked in the murky undertow,
Bouyed up by life too golden, sleek and warm
(you don’t remember, some think it better so)
To reason or resist. Your slightest wish
Became my choice and in the southern heat
We hung in that white noon, two strange, pale fish,
Woman and child, eternal and complete.
You don’t remember, but you knew it all:
Swimming the tidal waters by yourself,
Scorning the arms that held you, deftly to crawl
Onto that wide, alluvial silt shelf.