The second time I thought I died I was not swimming

The second time I thought I died I was not swimming

I thought I was brave,
wore a modest bikini,
bared to surf with no skills
the ocean bade — it traded in
rip tides and undertow.

My twenty-sixth year
wanted a love I shouldn’t.
Sky warmed cool waves
Bobbed me past breakers.
Why not this one? – I glide.

Skid into a spin. Aha, ‘Maytagged.’
Sometimes peace comes
when least expected. Counting
stops, we can decide to watch.
Consider: Is this out of body?

Or deeper in? The air burnt,
tempted water to put it out.
Sliding into wet then hot sand,
grateful a story wasn’t over.
Do we know how close we are.

Huntington Beach recedes
for me. An obsession, a life
traded to heal someone else’s.
I gave one man everything back
and left as soon as the tide was out.

* * *

So this is a poem for poem, responding to Kelli Russell Agodon’s poem “Vacationing With Sylvia Plath” that we are looking over this month.

I am not satisfied with my poem, but here it is anyway, talking about oceans and nearly dying — and being in a terrible relationship, which doesn’t come through enough. It is a scene I had been wanting to write about for a while, so Kelli’s poem gave me a little opening to explore some things. (Thanks, Kelli, for allowing this venture.)

“First Fear and a Death” was another of my “death poems,” published in Voice Catcher 3 and is about the first time I had sex. I am acutely aware of the psychological meaning of water and sex. I don’t think this poem hits that enough.

I’m struggling with a desire to write beautiful, evocative poems with surprising words and metaphor. As soon as I want to do that I turn literal and narrative. What gives?! Maybe I need to stick with essays for a while and not try so hard with poetry. I’m also struggling with tense. I wanted this to all be in present, but couldn’t pull it off. Maybe it should all be in past. Crap. Poem writing is difficult these days! Yeah, yeah, yeah. At least I am writing. Pfft.

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