Whatever happened to the cross-chest carry,
the head carry, the hair carry,
the tired-swimmer-put-your-hands-on-my-shoulders-
and-look-in-my-eyes retrieval, and what
became of the stride jump when you leap
from impossible heights and land with your head
above water so that you never lose sight
of your drowning person, or if he is close enough
where is the lifesaver ring attached to a rope
you can hurl at your quarry then haul
him to safety, or as a last resort
where is the dock onto which you tug
the unconscious soul, place him face down,
clear his mouth, straddle his legs, and press
with your hands on both sides of his rib cage
to the rhythm of out goes the bad air in
comes the good air and pray he will breathe,
hallowed methods we practiced over and over
the summer I turned eighteen to win
my Water Safety Instructor's badge,
and where is the boy from Ephrata, Pa.,
I made out with night after night in the lee
of the rotting boathouse at a small dank camp
on the lower Chesapeake Bay?
The Southern Review
Summer 2007
This poem is from is from the Daily Poetry archives. Have not been on the internet much this week but will make an effort to keep this up.
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