The Swimmer
by John Tustin
When I finally get to sleep
I swim out to that pile of rocks
Where she has been calling me
With her eyes that are
All the oceans of the earth
And her mouth that is
Fanning leaves and dark cool sand and ripe fruit.
She calls me each night
From her pile of rocks
Just within reach of this out-of-shape swimmer
And I come up to her with my face red
And my chest largely heaving.
We sit together side by side waiting in the pre-dawn
For the sky to turn from purple to orange-red to blue.
We don’t say a word.
Her hip touches mine
While we wait for the morning to come
And for me to awaken – forgetting her like every morning;
Forgetting her eyes that are all the oceans of the earth.
I swim out to that pile of rocks
Where she has been calling me
With her eyes that are
All the oceans of the earth
And her mouth that is
Fanning leaves and dark cool sand and ripe fruit.
She calls me each night
From her pile of rocks
Just within reach of this out-of-shape swimmer
And I come up to her with my face red
And my chest largely heaving.
We sit together side by side waiting in the pre-dawn
For the sky to turn from purple to orange-red to blue.
We don’t say a word.
Her hip touches mine
While we wait for the morning to come
And for me to awaken – forgetting her like every morning;
Forgetting her eyes that are all the oceans of the earth.
John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals in the last thirteen years. Read some of his published poetry at fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry.