Edwina Trentham
of my mother, long-limbed, half-smiling,
standing in sun-spangled water up
to her waist. She is lowering me
gently into the warm Bermuda sea,
her right hand firm under my back,
her left one cupping my small head.
I am almost one, and this is the first
swim of my life, so she wants to see
my eyes startle with delight, to watch
my clenched fists fly open, wants to feel
the swirl of my dark hair floating,
sliding cool between her fingers.
In this made up memory our gazes
are locked—like all those paintings
where mother and child stare deep
into each other’s eyes, can’t bear
to look away, they are so much in love.
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