Connection Piece VI
swim as far as you can in your dream/ away from/ your home/ your mate/ your children/ your pets/ your belongings/ your work place/ your colleagues/ see if you drown or survive
--Yoko Ono
1.
My mother wants a one-lane lap pool.
We talk about this often.
She wants for us to dig the hole in her backyard
together—
we understand one other when we use our bodies.
We would shovel out the earth until our arms
ache, our shoulders paralyzed with the strain
of repetitious movement,
line it with stone, labor, then fill it with water.
2.
Long after the swallows fly south
and the milkweed’s soft leaves begin to
shrivel into crunchy cocoons,
and the monarchs dwindle to the last few
castaways hiding in the tall silvery grasses
the winds pick up from the north and east.
After summer fades into longer shadows
and the apples are harvested from her trees,
she will have to construct a tent-bubble
to encase her dream pool—
“If I had a small pool in my yard, I would swim
twice, maybe 3 times a day,” my mother whispers—
We understand the world better when we are moving.
“I would like that.”
I nodded, yes.
Water home.