Swimming in a Foreign Language
You might want to know, the late tomatoes still ripen,
breathless in the pale light. Brandywine seeds
ported from England learn to speak Berkeley.
We are all immigrants here, learning the twist
of tongue, the song of a baseball stitching flight,
lexicon of the housecat scanning the night.
Still so many fugitive words. The one for possum
feet that weave a warp to furred vines' woof.
The particular green bite the animal takes
from every fruit. The brim of your father’s fedora
had he shaken you from sleep before he left.
You dreamed he stood and watched you pitch,
one foot on the Hudson running board.
Out of earshot. We’ve learned more people pass
when the moon is full. Some words presume
dying is leaving, presume tidal blood ebbs
without return. The day you died, the grunion
heaved their silver tsunami—thousands of fins—
ashore to twist on the ends of their tails.
The stranded ones gleam with chips of sun.
These things we know without seeing.
We can’t name the last breath, until the next one isn’t.
What is the word for that silence between?
Water grows heavier the deeper it sinks.
CALLING THROUGH WATER is published by Tebot Bach Press. Kim’s website:
www.kimhamiltonpoet.com
