I think I'll dedicate this next poem
to Lois who told me that she just learned how to swim.
It's called "Trophies" and it's dedicated to a man who
learned to swim when he was 60.
I know Lois is much younger than that but--
[LAUGHTER]
--once you pass 20 it's all the same [LAUGHS]
it comes to learning to swim.
I still cannot swim, probably never will.
"To you, the ocean was like an old mother saying, 'Leon why
can't you be more like Abe?
He's such a good boy playing quietly at his little table.
Leon is such a rascal he's never still.'
And you walk into the blue water.
The sand as white as your mother's ankle.
The palm trees leaning like old people talking to each other.
Deeper, deeper, you walk till it's over your waist.
'Leon', calls your mother, whose voice is now the breakers
crashing out beyond you in the ocean,
beyond the sheltered bay.
'Leon, be careful.
I know you'll do something clever and get yourself
in trouble.'
There is no way you can swim.
For 60 years the water speaks like a mother
whom you beautifully obey.
You too, a palm tree, bending to listen carefully for each word.
Silence was your answer until, one day, you walked into water
and the immense white beach was now
her braceleted hand, caressing your feet,
making love to your own white body.
I do not really know your story but I
do know that at some point, the angry voice, her teeth,
her stunning white ankle that you feared became beautiful
as trophies, you fought for them, possessed them.
It is too simple to say a woman taught you to swim.
Let us say, instead, that your enemy did.
As the Indians tell us, it is our enemies, fighting them,
articulating and defining what we despise, our stew,
our enemies, who make us hero.''