At first, it’s a dog-paddle, all
kicking and flailing and taking on
too much water. Slow. Slogging. It becomes the breast stroke,
less effort. Sustainable. Getting nowhere fast, so you move into
freestyling the long stroke,
poorly. It’s all about rotating your arms and
paddling your legs in time with
breathing. Learning to coordinate all three. Exhausting.
Gratifying, and you backstroke for a time,
catching your breath. Watching the clouds, the water always tugging,
tugging you back. Tugging you down. Making you swim and swim and swim because
there is no end to the water. No land. No shore. No raft or boat or log to cling to,
just the water’s lazy promise, “I will drown you if I can. I promise. Oh, I vow.”
And so you learn to tread water, for
those times you cannot swim. It’s that or succumb
to the water always whispering, always whispering, always
whispering…
TLD
Modesty Is For Suckers 