Lesson at Birch Bay by Adria Libolt

On the beach, I gather clam shells with cousins
discarding cracked remnants.

Dad calls for the swimming lesson,
I dread, dig my feet in sand, covered, stuck

Waves wash over my excuse,
leaving no trace.

I lie shivering stiff in salty warm
shallow waters of Birch Bay, Dad’s hand
under my back assuring me I can float.

Greedy waves’ fingers
slimy with seaweed from the briny murk
find my mouth, nose, gasping, drowning.

Like tides, my trust ebbing, disappears
a sun falling below the horizon.

At dusk, wrapped in towels,
we toast marshmallows,
over a disintegrating log

crumbling with dying embers,
casting reflections
on Dad’s wistful smile.

regretting the way I cling to shore’s safety,
I watch, envying the reckless, still bobbing in waves

splashing for their lives, gulping breaths
to stay under in dead man floats.