The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Janice D. Soderling


You swirl your whittled ribcage upside down,
little swimmer.
Paddling hands open and close in anticipation.

You call underwater; your tender skin
bare as an bark-stripped tree.

Attune your seashell ears,
little swimmer,
kicking restively in the night-gorged hollow.

What I try to answer is a kind of music,
sometimes more than that, like
the cyclic swell of the tide to crescendo,
like these impotent fingers that would lull you,
stroking through taut belly-skin.

A black ocean crests under silent stars.
We are all swimmers here.

Copyright 2006-7 by Cook Communication