Crack of the gun, they’re off!
Left, right, left…
Waves of swimmers
Slicing through crystal waters.
To cacophonous applause tossed like
crazy laps beyond them, bouncing off walls—
drowning the void between air and space,
pledging deafening sorority that promises
to go on forever past the finish line.
I breath in drunk wafts of energy.
Dripping humid air hangs on my skin like a pause.
A mother screams out to redirect her son:
arms waving, misconnecting, mishearing
he plods on wrong strokes, this way and that
for the home team.
A perfect little girl climbs out, bunched over
with cramp, is tenderly wrapped in a towel
and spirited away by her mother.
Another girl breaks a record in the breaststroke
to wild excitement—not on our team.
More wild pandemonium in a freestyle relay,
tsunami waves for another record—again, not our team.
A boy dives in undaunted, last in the event, pouring
heart and soul in an effort to catch-up, already lost.
Amidst it all a girl pulls soggy self out of the water.
A gorgeous intaglio trying not to be noticed; you can see
she is tired, reticent of her achievement—a quiet victory,
barely pulling a first against older larger opponents.
While this man’s eyes swim with joyous tears
for his adored daughter:
Diving in, ecstatic, gasping,
standing,
dripping in his feet.
Stephen Cipot
