I learned to swim years ago, in a pond
wreathed in cattails, crayfish, leeches.
We jumped in together, wincing at
the wet mud squeezing between our toes,
trying to ignore the immediacy
of our bodies in suddenly-sheer cotton.
I learned to swim with you,
skin to slick skin, there under the moon
with pale green waves lapping us
in circles under the stars. When we exited
we picked leeches off each other,
quick before they latched, throwing them
out into the woods, hoping they'd die.
I learned to swim bright and pale
with legs around your waist, pressed
close for physical heat, for the purity
of teenagers discovering each other.
In a wild sea now I try to keep pace
with the crests as they roll in,
foam over foam, pulling me out and away
from the squalid safety of the mud.
Here the leeches are too slow for me,
but the tide too quick; I will be
a beautiful blue-green corpse, unblemished
and frozen, motionless in my cold skin.