My Father Drowning
       

He struggles for a word
the way some men struggle
to catch a fish, the boat
too small, the dark sea's
tongue lapping and lapping
like a dog's at the edge
of the fragile vessel, and when
it finally comes to him,
he can hardly get his lips
around the sound, slippery
sound, his voice so soft we
lean forward. My father,
who when I was young,
swung me by my arms
safe above the wave
now neck deep, and I want
to drag him back toward air,
but no one can swim out there,
his sea is only his and so wide
we can sometimes hardly
see him, arms limp by his
sides, lips moving because
he still thinks he can be saved.

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Copyright © 2021 Beth Gylys All rights reserved
from Body Braille
Iris Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission