(wind rustling)
(birds chirping)
- Portrait of my father drowning.
In the type of love he deserves.
Nestled in his lap a young
me is learning how to swim.
I flounder in water that is only knee deep
while fully dressed on
the pool's edge my mother
records the lesson.
Blood will always be
outweighed by the body of water
it wades into.
Earth itself I realize
is just a body of waters.
Years later I spend a summer patrolling
a different pool's edge.
I lose count of how many sons
are held by their fathers.
Large and calloused hands
buoying their lineages.
These islands, and their fluttering limbs.
(birds chirping)
