George Dillon Memorial Award, 2017

I remember him pushing me over

the edge, a four-year-old fat boy

falling five feet under.

 

That will get him to swim,

dad thought. 

I nearly drowned

before his hand hooked me 

back into the air.

 

I never swim again.

 

A beetle is part water; I learn 

by crushing one.

Its remaining droplets 

entombed by earth. Feeding

 

seed, the beetle blooms

into a marigold,

erupting,

even after death.

 

I never kill again.

 

I stand over dad’s grave,

hearing his skin 

shout from under. 

 

His soul - a single 

droplet, steams,

rising to the sun.

 

I never visit again.

 

Under the moon,

a hurricane bleeds.

Blistering waves

tear homes, swallowing

highway bridges.

 

From my balcony,

I watch the city drown

as the sea rises, 

crawling 

to my feet. Waves tuck 

my hips, reeling me in.

Under them, 

 

he calls.