Nymph
You taught me swimming all those summers.
Began by letting me slide
off your back
into the murk.
Stumbled
to clutch at my small shoulders
as you plucked me
clinging and spluttering
my sudden list of injuries.
Scolded:
“Don’t be a crybaby.
I didn’t let you drown.”
That’s how I learned to kick.
I called to you as the summers passed
over our wet skin.
Feet toughened by the stones
ran splashing
to perfect my mermaid dives
so you would praise.
You never made it easy.
The ankles had to stay together in the tail.
Body arched stiff
as a shark.
Head disappeared, learned
to navigate in green.
In our lake you could never see the bottom.
Landing was a trick
when the waves were high.
We swam when no one else would
into the breakers
and came out glistening.
It was as if you knew the metaphor already
though you were not much one
for poetry.
You knew what I would need to forgive
even when I was small enough
to ride on your back
and slip
rubbery white
beneath the surface.
You taught me to swim through all conditions.
When it’s June I brave the cold great lake.
When the waves roll high
above my head,
dive straight.
Let them hurl me back to shore.
Fall hard and time
the standing up right.
Laugh with water like a lover.
You knew I’d need that mermaid skin,
the tough hide of the nymph.
All those summers,
your last summers,
you made sure we swam each day
and at times when others wouldn’t.
Now
at ten on a January night
I push on with wet hair
past the frozen city windows,
return from the pool alone.
I know your gift.
Feel the lengths I’ve traveled
since you first let me go.
From my poetry collection, In Green (Guernica, 2002)
“Nymph” © Robin Blackburn McBride