diving lessons

there’s pixie dust in the water
off this island coast
where time is liquid
so i am both mother and child
and can learn the things i never did
about how to fall
and how to fly

there’s place on this rock
where hands and feet press concrete
to shape the land
but it is the land that shapes
as it did mothers and fathers
great-grandmothers and great-grandfathers
whose ashes conform to the landscape

there is family in this place
sprawls like family
stings like family
deep like family
thick like family

there’s sacrament in these cups
their origin unknown
intermingled as the stories that flow with wine
on docks, on decks, in kitchens

there’s story in these beams
creaking beneath my feet as they are lifted and dropped by the tide
whispering things to which they have borne witness
battles and confidences
tear-soaked towels
(marginally) true tales
hymns and bootylicious
curses uttered over failing motors
prayers of gratitude
hand-clasped leaps
and other pacts
feet that have pressed them
running-running-running, slowing, but never ceasing to return
to the rites observed here

there is pixie dust in this water
so I stand where beam meets sea
and tip
head-before-feet
falling into the deep’s embrace