by Brian J Andrade

Age 4
I remember him pushing me over
the edge, a four-year-old fat boy
falling five feet under.
That will get him to swim,
dad thought. 
I nearly drowned
before his hand hooked me 
back into the air.
I never swim again.
Age 9
A beetle is part water; I learn 
by crushing one.
Its remaining droplets 
entombed by earth. Feeding
seed, the beetle blooms
into a marigold,
even after death.
I never kill again.
Age 19
I stand over dad’s grave,
hearing his skin 
shout from under. 
His soul - a single 
droplet, steams,
rising to the sun.
I never visit again.
Age 22 
Under the moon,
a hurricane bleeds.
Blistering waves
tear homes, swallowing
highway bridges.
From my balcony,
I watch the city drown
as the sea rises, 
to my feet. Waves tuck 
my hips, reeling me in.
Under them, 
he calls.
It’s time,
time for the night