Silver whistle and board shorts,
accustomed to giving CPR so,
kissing, he tilted my head too far back.
I could feel him run his fingers
along my throat, pulse-checking.
Sometimes I held my breath,
stilled my chest and waited
for him to panic, but that
sharp chill never came –
he was always warm, calm.
In bed, I’d lift the blue
coverlet behind my back,
straddle him, grin, call
Tidal wave! then fall onto
his tan chest.
Evenings, standing on a balcony,
he’d shove me towards gravity’s tug,
then quick-grab me back, explaining
I saved you. See?
I saved you.
Listen to this poem:
