Father, Child, Water
I lift your body to the boat before you drown or choke or slip too far beneath. I didn't think--just jumped, just did what I did like the physics that flung you in. My hands clutch under year-old arms, between your life jacket and your bobbing frame, pushing you, like a fountain cherub, up and out. I'm fooled by the warmth pulsing from the gash on my thigh, sliced wide and clean by an errant screw on the stern. No pain. My legs kick out blood below. My arms strain against our deaths to hold you up as I lift you, crying, reaching, to the boat. Gary Dop