How to Swim
once, you knew
your feet like flippers
beach inviting
as the heartbeat of the world
now
saltwater weeps
from nine trillion tons of ice
stormfront on our shores
climb to your roof
take off your shoes
strip to your skin
as water crests
above the eaves
no need to hold your breath
Swallowtail
If I were a swallowtail folded by the river,
waiting for just the right whisp of breeze,
I’d hold the cottonwood twig lightly enough
to feel the tug and sway of life around me.
I’d find myself by losing myself
in the scent of magnolia and the smooth
sound of water easing by. I’d never doubt
my sense of what’s right, nor fear the swallow
that tomorrow may snap me from the air.
I’d let go—rise to ride that perfect swell,
a golden glow fluttering through blue
above green, until daylight yields, draped
by darkness adorned with flecks of stars.
Alfred Fournier is an entomologist, writer and community volunteer from Phoenix, Arizona. His poems have appeared in The Indianapolis Review, Welter, Amethyst Review, Third Wednesday, Gyroscope Review, Cagibi, Hole in the Head Review, and elsewhere. His poetry chapbook, "A Summons on the Wind," (2023) is available from Kelsay Books and on Amazon. alfredfournier.com.
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