I have swum too far
out of my depth
and the sun has gone;
the hung weight of my legs
a plumb-line,
my fingers raw, my arms lead;
the currents pull like weed
and I am very tired
and cold, and moving out to sea.
The beach is still bright.
The children I never had
run to the edge
and back to their beautiful mother
who smiles at them, looks up
from her magazine, and waves.

This Issue

December 5, 2002