Learning to Wait, and: The Ledge

Learning to Wait

I want to write an elegy to the edge of shade
in Spanish I almost understand, strange trills and clucks of tongue;

a sestina for the repeating ellipses of branches blown into dance;

a mambo ballad that's been tuning its chords in twitches
of fingers that don't pluck a note but know their tone and bend,
like murmuring banks where smiles from far-off tables
rise to meet needles and fall into the wind of a creek.

I want a sonnet for the place between your thighs,
the jeweled quiet there, the margins of that space,
like warmth of a dream you're just conscious of but haven't left yet;

I want to hold the line, to say: Here. Stop.

And point to bark of eucalyptus, late fall,
returning to leaves, cracking to speak a last flame of day
in a curling, slow sun, so dry it can only mouth its ending.

The Ledge

On the beach almost every day that summer my skin turned a radiant brown—each burn piled on a previous one—my first tan. I stood on jetties, sat in a fiberglass rowboat, watched the line of bodies bob in the surf, stood straight, hands clasped behind back, atop a ten-foot white chair in short orange trunks and a tank top. We rookies ran where we were sent, swam to the buoy in the Hook, shook through push-ups, circled and hooted for rain around a tree stump dragged from the park.

A Noreaster had me standing at Diversy one morning—hummed to myself, sang out loud—Aud Lang's eye, Star-Spangled Banner, Taps, old campfire songs, anything to pass time. Wonder & boredom—too long with nothing to do but sing & watch the lake and sky—an occasional idiot wanting to swim out to a buoy that looked closer than it was or a jet skier zig-zagging through the swim area—it was wonderful really. Knew I wasn't the lifeguard type—no huge pectorals, rippling abs, no huge desire to see if I could have them—but was, so far, passable.

Walking the concrete—white sweats, orange windbreaker, whistle tucked in, red rescue buoy in hand, radio around waist—I was part of something. Watched the figure of a man and his dog at the harbor entrance. Nothing else to do, no one else within half a mile. The ten-pound dog dove off the ledge into fourteen feet of water, and waves rolled him like a football. Began walking as the man stood at water's edge—could barely hear his screams for the dog in the wind. When he took off his shoes & jacket, I yelled into it— Hey sir! No swimming! Hey Sir!—and when he dove in headfirst I started jogging, still yelling.

Halfway to him, saw his arms wave frantic over his head, saw water cresting over him, and ran. Ran, shouted something about drowning victim into the radio, saw the tiny dog back on land barking at his owner, ran, saw his head begin to go under, did not think, did not take off anything but shoes, the radio—a quick slip, slip, snap, drop—did not think, dove into wind & water, swam and grabbed his hand and forearm before they too went under. Did not whisper thank god I got to him before he sunk—slid one arm with the buoy under him, the other around his neck, and began to kick. I did not think about choke-hold escapes practiced with a massive Samoan captain in a cloudy park district pool, there was nothing but hold, kick, kick, as the swells pulled us back then pushed us toward the blocks. I held him and kicked, and before we were there, hands reached down to pull him up, to pull me up, and the rescue boat and the divers pulled out of the harbor.

Stripped off the sopping sweats, the jacket. Told the story...