one summer, you volunteered
to teach me how to swim, saying:
i can show you everything
from backstroke to freestyle,
and when you're tired, you will learn
to tuck air into your pockets
so when the waves rush in,
they will be the ones gasping for breath.

they trained you to be alert, wary.
to keep an eye on the children playing
tag in the shallows, and especially on
the older woman awaiting the next tide.
they taught you how to lift your eyes up,
while still keeping your mind on the ground.
they taught you to listen to pulses and breaths,
and to know what it takes to keep a heart alive.

i thought you were trained for this.

but love caught you distracted,
in a torrent that swept all your knowledge
into the open sea, your heart along with it.
he dragged you into the waves and
kissed oxygen into your mouth
every time the water's chill
danced down your spine.

and when you finally resurfaced,
i had to describe to you what the sun
looked like from beyond the sand.

you told me about the first day,
when they stood before you
and announced the most important
lesson of lifeguarding:
always save yourself first.

sometimes i wish you'd forget about
30:2 and buoys and boys named marcus,
and memorize that instead.