The year I almost drowned
was the year I learned to swim.
I was weighed down pound by pound
and things were looking grim.
My arms flailing; began to tire
and my mouth was tasting salt,
just days ago I warmed myself by fire
and by lying on the asphalt.

Shadow stalks and kicking rocks;
irrelevant if your shoes are tied.
Checking locks and kicking rocks
get carried away by the tide.

The year I almost drowned
was the year I learned to swim.
I could view the sandy ground,
though the image was quite dim.
My head; just barely above the water
and desperately I was gasping for air,
and I could swear it was getting hotter
but the temperature was actually fair.

I’ve got currents and tides
within my mind.
And when I finally rip out my insides;
more water and waves you’ll find.

The year I almost drowned
was the year I learned to swim.
While being tossed and pushed around
I discovered I had every limb.
I could see a shoreline in the distance
it’s beaches with perfect white sand.
It seemed within an instance
I started treading steadily with each hand.

the overwhelming chlorine enfolds itself unto my skin,
the fluorescent lights paste themselves to the back of my eyelids,
the cold salt-less waves lap against the harsh brown concrete,
over and over and over again.
every monday.
every thursday.

it's one thing to be plunging in the water,
shuddering and choking on that awful taste,
falling behind since elementary because--
no matter how hard you kick or how intently you listen,
you're the slowest one there--
and--
you. can't. get. better.
that's all fine.

it's another to stand on the deck,
awkwardly shift your body to look smaller, fold inwards,
smooth out your eyebrows until a few fleck into your fingers,
dig your nails into your arms (but, careful! don't be obvious about it),
try to smile and--

every monday.
every thursday.
i go back to that awful awful pool deck
that reeks of chemicals and humiliation
that always makes me retreat into my cells

and

every monday.
every thursday.
i reconsider the possibility of
drowning myself,
in the pool.

They say grief comes in waves
varying in size and intensity;
some start small, moving silently,
might seem harmless but engulf
me within no time and I
was never taught how to swim.

Thrashing and flailing in the water
I find it difficult to breathe.
The seas of sadness pull me far
into their abyss where there is no
light or hope to get out of the misery;
sometimes even that feels enticing and comforting.

On other days these waves come
roaring loud in the ears, threatening
to steal my ground away from me, often
I brave to surf over them with the
help of distractions and they
recede, scheming to gulp me down later.

Wonder how I end up on these shores every time
while on a train or on my bed, in a
classroom or in a conference hall, amongst
the crowded streets and when alone,
memories of yesterday strewn like sea shells
lead me to the waters and I can always hear their elegies.

And when the moon shines its brightest
on them, you get to see the scene of tranquillity
but deep inside my heart there is
a storm brewing slowly that takes
various names every season, maybe there is
one named after you too, who knows.

Do you want to come with me down
to the ocean of tears? We could let
those waves kiss our feet while we watch
the sunset together, I will tell you
all my stories and you could share yours too.
I hope you know how to swim.

Hit after hit
head under water (inebriated)
unable to swim,
I choked,
unsure if by God's hands or my own.
But by God I swallowed it all
then begged for more.

I sank until my feet hit the bottom
stirring the sand around my legs
then upwards.
The ocean floor obscured,
my vision obstructed.
Desperately I swiped
in vain,
and swiped again,
but still the obstruction remained.
And God laughed
and I choked
either by God's hands or mine,
by miracle or design.
Am I Him
or Him me?

Seething with questions
sung and unheard,
then yelled and ignored,
I finally lay myself to rest.
A deep sigh escaping my breast,
I surrendered to rest.

Sleep overcame me
and I dreamt of pearls,
that one day this heaviness
would give birth to pearls.
But alas I awaken
and in my night terror
I had stirred the sand again.
I do not remember.
God let me remember.

I dream of pearls
and of pearls I dream.
Yet still am I to awaken
to this dream.
The sand begins to settle
but the hand stirs again,
never lain to rest,
the obstruction remains.

Sometimes I see glimmers,
gleams and glistens
of the pearls I've only
seen in my dreams.
And by God's hands they gleam
as they always did.
But my hands became rough
from the sand that stirs
and I fear to ever touch,
a pearl,
to ensure that I never
grind her back to sand.
For God shall laugh
and I shall choke.

"Stay sleeping, little one.
Dream of pearl,"
He said.
And deliver He did
oblivion and pearls.

We were woollen
as the coach pulled up
alongside the C of E school

our swimming provided free
and municipal
so the stung eyes and barked, sodden ideas
were mitigated

at least if we fell
into the rank brown swells nearby
our inevitable drowning
could be offset:

the boy could swim
and was a king at buying the 5p
Highland Toffee from the machine

do you walk upon
water the exigent wet
do fishes know swim

I visited you today,
felt you crunch against my toes,
smelt you from a mile away,
heard you in your throes.

You covered me in wet kisses,
as I languished in your swell,
you promised me an ocean,
one you knew so well.

I took you in my mouth,
let you spill down my chin,
and as I walked away, I smiled,
knowing I could still taste you on my skin.