It wasn't that I couldn't swim
I learned when I was nine.
(Quick panicked breathes just above into the air
out into the water
to tread water coughing and spitting
Long hair swirling, slapping, caressing the skin.)
I learned to dive when I was older
falling from pools' edges into deeper water.
(One arm breaks the water long, pale
gleams above, now below.
Green water churned to brightness by long-legged-limbs
awkward with weight and age;
shaken back
broken glass against the light.)
But I can only swim for me. I cannot swim for two.
This is the truth, I know. This is not a lie
told to placate the conscience now that you are dead.
If I had tried to swim for you
now would I be dead.
This is not a lie.
But still, I didn't try.