When I was learning how to swim
Mom’s family friend of a friend put my head under water. Okay, she
said when I rose up gasping, okay, now blink! Blink! Come on, my
mother shouted poolside, reclining. Come on hun, blink!
Jesus Christ don’t let me die here,
body floating pale backside up,
notches of young vertebrae visible through the skin.
Jesus Christ I love You, I love You, and I love mommy too
so save me, help me, make me blink.
The chlorine stung my eyes.
Salvation wasn’t as good as breathing.
I struggled and I learned to swim.
A few years passed and I begged
to be held under water again.
Another family friend I only saw once.
A pastor barefoot on the beach.
We sat together on warm sand.
He explained the work of John the Baptist.
I walked into the ocean beside him
and my mother recorded the whole thing.
The footage would be lost but not I.
With steady footing the wizened man of God
held my back and shoved me down, my legs flailing.
He held me down. Sunlight pierced the green murk.
I saw no shadows, no figures.
Jesus Christ I am Yours but do not claim me here,
pitiful sinful child trembling in the hands of Your servant.
Jesus Christ please, I am so scared.
My face broke through a wave.
My nostrils flooded and I was already crying.
I sat in a towel on the shore
witness to the harsh, cleansing sea unblinking.
My mother rubbed my shoulder, told me I did well. Jesus Christ
I left You sinking to the floor of the Pacific, of the pool, a
waterlogged savior held down by John indefinitely. Jesus Christ
if You ever rise up remember to blink.
D.C. Klein is a poet and film photographer living in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and cat. His work has been published or is forthcoming in Counterclock, Body Fluids, and Not My Style, among others. He is currently reading a seven-part fantasy series.
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