NEW! Poem by Aaron Crippen

Aaron Crippen

SWIMMING

It doesn’t matter how deep or how far

as long as you stay on top of the water.

This is right. No one can help you.

Your body will hold out until it doesn’t.

See the upright ants on the strip of sand:

they are humans. They have lives.

Silver-green water licks your closed lips like a lover.

Take her tongue deeply—a few minutes

of fear—and you can rest.

Who, when, fondled your heart and left it

a bruised peach floating in tepid water.

When it gets blue and cold the mind sharks 

come nibbling. Under this rock overhang,

around the craggy point, across the blue

bay and on to the beach after next,

there is a joint in your shoe. You can stand

on the sand and smoke in the breeze

off the water, watch the topless Europeans

with Venus hips and joyless faces tan.

There is the mainland. A person whose face

feels broader and deeper than the Andaman Sea

can be reached by a boat and a taxi 

and a bus and a taxi and two planes

and a subway and a short walk. Who needs

God with real people so far away?

Faith, Friend. The water doesn’t want you.

Old coconuts, worn flip flops understand.

The shark is not here. You’ll know when it comes.

Your heart is still beating. I’m here to tell you.