WEBVTT

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I think I'll dedicate
this next poem

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to Lois who told me that she
just learned how to swim.

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It's called "Trophies" and
it's dedicated to a man who

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learned to swim when he was 60.

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I know Lois is much
younger than that but--

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[LAUGHTER]

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--once you pass 20 it's
all the same [LAUGHS]

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it comes to learning to swim.

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I still cannot swim,
probably never will.

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"To you, the ocean was like an
old mother saying, 'Leon why

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can't you be more like Abe?

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He's such a good boy playing
quietly at his little table.

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Leon is such a rascal
he's never still.'

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And you walk into
the blue water.

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The sand as white as
your mother's ankle.

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The palm trees leaning like old
people talking to each other.

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Deeper, deeper, you walk
till it's over your waist.

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'Leon', calls your mother,
whose voice is now the breakers

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crashing out beyond
you in the ocean,

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beyond the sheltered bay.

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'Leon, be careful.

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I know you'll do something
clever and get yourself

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in trouble.'

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There is no way you can swim.

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For 60 years the water
speaks like a mother

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whom you beautifully obey.

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You too, a palm tree, bending to
listen carefully for each word.

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Silence was your answer until,
one day, you walked into water

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and the immense
white beach was now

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her braceleted hand,
caressing your feet,

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making love to your
own white body.

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I do not really know
your story but I

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do know that at some point,
the angry voice, her teeth,

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her stunning white ankle that
you feared became beautiful

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as trophies, you fought
for them, possessed them.

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It is too simple to say a
woman taught you to swim.

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Let us say, instead,
that your enemy did.

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As the Indians tell us, it is
our enemies, fighting them,

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articulating and defining
what we despise, our stew,

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our enemies, who make us hero.''

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