A Near-Drowning Poem by Morgan Michaels

Once, when I was a kid, I nearly drowned.
The sand of Old Orchard Beach was in-
dustrially pure, each grain
slipperysmooth and round.

Here, like a Ferris-wheel on its side,
to calliope strains, a horsey carousal
cranked itself dutifully 'round and around;
There, like a carousal on end,

a Ferris-wheel fenced the horizon-
so far off none could hear
the wails of its coming-over-the-top riders.
its spokes shot glints of silver

toward the red perimeter. So clean, the air
could fry babies in minutes-
fresh and very Maine. Colors were brighter, then.
I stood at the shifting shoreline

having turned my backside to the surf
(which you should probably never do)
to watch the driftwood-colored seagulls
hover quaveringly in place,

when, from behind a frigid wave knocked me flat,
spinning and numbing me like the beginning
part of Blindman's Bluff.*
Certain I was done,

it began slowly to drag me seaward
clenched in the foaming
fingers of its sizzling grip.
'Shucks', I thought, 'I'm gone.'

But, never say 'never' I suppose.
Next moment, I felt the firm hand of my father
on my arm, contending with the wave,
warning it 'not so fast, '

and strong arms hoisting me skyward,
setting me, sputtering, on my feet.
Everything was suddenly shivery,
and swaddled in spotless terry.

We never mentioned it again, the near-drowning, thus,
watchfully friendly with the sea I remained.
In a house on stilts that night
I sniffed and ate peanut-butter and bacon sandwiches on toast-
but my snot was unusually salty for a week.


* a popular party game