Fear of Floating
by Earl Coleman

I can’t float. It’s because I do not trust the water.
I seize it in both hands, wrestle it, refuse to let it
bear me, as my early histories reflect themselves
with shallows I mistook for depths, depths I had
escaped from, almost having drowned. My history’s
not only water-logged -- I seize the sandy moment
in my hands as well, before it sifts away. The beach
is mine to lie upon, spread-eagled, catching sun,
while giggling waves roll up and snatch the sand
from under me, tempting me back in to try again.

I sail my fragile vessel forth to join the world
with some trepidity, never certain it’s caulked tight
enough, sea-worthy, ship-shape, crafted, fit for
doldrums, blows. How shall I learn to roll with it?
I practice -- seize my lovers with both hands, often
borne aloft, yet never part of quiet strength which
lies beneath. There’s something huge at stake for me,
else how explain the constant launch, the plunge,
inviting water, love, to have its way with me
before I seize it in my steely hands.