Variation on a Ritual at Eight Weeks

Done with your breast, milk drunk, eyes rove

in a dream. Trust yourself to leave. Trust his father,

also asleep. Drive to the water. Undress to skin, neoprene.

You practiced for this. Walk in to your chin, your eyes,

the top of your head. Curled like a fetus, sink. Dare to open

your eyes. Black water. Listen long to the gurgling body of night.

Let the stony muck cooly cradle you, grow you hot for breath.

Inexorable, explode off the dark, barnacled fundus of the Sound.

Let the memory rise of two jumping feet inside.

Head free, inhale. Tread. Take in the sparkling surface.

Find the moon. Tread. Swim back to the edge.

From hands and knees, lift yourself to ancient feet. Stretch.

Shiver. Towel off this new creature. Drive home.

Lie down between them. Wet haired, salt-clean.

The way your salty child was clean, wearing you.