They tack up and down
all morning. Mark trailing one hand
in the waves, crying his hard
gull-cries of joy, my father pointing out
bright flags on shore, which are
us, waving
them on, until
the sudden commotion of sail, jabber
of cleats, swingabout of
boat, pivot of Central Lake on
my father’s foot, caught at that moment
in a rope,
my father hanging neither up
nor down, thrashing under, using,
maybe using up his lungs
to catch that child who hardly knows
water from air. The thought,
oh yes, the thought settles
in my heart: part of me
goes down, drowned, the perfect part
splashes back
to shore. And then years
later, here I come,
bringing out the towels, willing
as a murderer, reformed, but sentenced
abundant life in which they have both
come back, my father’s ankle bloody
from the rope, my purple-lipped
brother riding his shoulders,
uncontrollably babbling.