That summer in Tunkhannock the cold stream
barked, dogs herding over stones. Behind me,
wading with a switch of willow in your hand,
you drove me out: large father
with your balding, sun-ripe head, quicksilver
smiles. I wavered over pebbles,
small, white curds, and listened into fear:
the falls that sheared the stream close by,
the gargle and the basalt boom.
“It’s safe,” you said. “Now go ahead and swim.”
I let it go, dry-throated, lunging.
Currents swaddled me from every side,
my vision reeling through the upturned sky.
Half dazed and flailing in a whelm of cries,
I felt your big hand father me ashore.