Swimming Lesson

Christine Pennylegion

My grandmother learned swimming from a book,

belly pressed flat against the piano bench:

a stroke or two, a pause to take a look,

correct her form, will muscles to unclench

against the pull of gravity. She held

her breath, imagined water all around,

dreamed sand between her toes, and thought she smelled

the sea-brined air, despite the solid ground

and solid wood beneath. Her arms were cranes

in flight, her back a pillar rising from

the sea—with seaweed rippling through her veins,

she swam on land until her legs went numb.

One day she met the ocean, slipped inside

as radiant with laughter as a bride.