Shabbona Swimming Pool
I feel warmth
from hot water pipes,
as I lean against the wall
to pull up my swimsuit.
Locker doors, pink as grapefruits,
wriggle like freshly-caught salmon.
I imagine painting high on the ceiling-
glossy souvenir plates
faceless and exotic,
revealing thin ribbons of flesh like
lingerie straps of a woman
as she runs for a bus.
to a world of rubber, cold water
where I’ve vowed to carve my body
with wet breath,
and a thousand gestures of arms,
breast, back, kick, crawl.
Tons of cares dip beneath me,
at the same time reject me,
keeping me afloat,
like some branch fallen in a river.
my lungs pant
a reminder of my birth,
in mud and bark and snow,
so unlike Chief Shabbona himself,
who swam tirelessly,
in rivers twice as old, nearby.
I see him rise, wet,
into the forest,
returning with a deer dragged
on a travois.
They move together
through deep white crystals,
back to his people’s camp.
And now, whatever I’ve gathered
from these waters,
I can only take back
to the showers,
hissing like radiators,
catching my body
in the mirror
on my way
to my quilt-covered
where an indian waits
in a book
that I read.
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Comments about this poem (Shabbona Swimming Pool by Cynthia Gallaher )
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
Federico García Lorca
(5 June 1898 – 19 August 1936)
Harivansh Rai Bachchan
(27 November 1907 – 18 January 2003)
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(18 June 1945)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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