backstroke 

i do not want to learn how to swim anymore.
instead, i would like to learn
to swallow every lake i find myself in.
once, in the angry summer,
we drove through the head of a needle
to a house in the middle of a birthday cake.  
there was a bear standing in the yard
like a car salesman. he did not leave
the whole time we were there. together
at the mucky bottom lake, i drowned
a few times before anyone noticed. 
i know i know, i just wanted attention.
we all did. we were boneless & barbeque. 
all my angels hovering above the ground.
in the water's reflection, the mountain checked
to make sure she was still beautiful. 
when was the last time you stared into a mirror
so long that you were no longer sure
it was yourself being spat out at you?
i remember the kneecap bathroom. 
it smelled deliciously of wood 
& weathered conversations. old shoes 
growing wings. i told you i do not want 
to learn how to swim but the truth is
i do. i do so badly. i went out to the woods
in the morning while everyone else
was still cave cricket sleep singing.
there, i found a pool of water full
of mosquitos & frogs. i waded into the water
up to my neck. i almost went further
but i got too afraid. when we drove home
i was nothing but a ribbon. you held
the steering wheel like a pie tin.
it wasn't enough. it couldn't have been
to get the motion right. in my fantasies 
i lay on my back. reach arms up. the grain mill.
the greeting card. stomach to the sky. 
already finished. legs kicking the butterflies
out of their sugar. in the driveway 
i caught a storm cloud & shoved it
in my mouth. you were too agreeable 
to say anything. you smiled like someone does
when the person on the other end 
of the line is clearly not in a swimming pool.