My mother’s arm reaches
out of the water
and slides back in.
Then the other arm. Repeatedly,
they appear and disappear
as they move her through the turbulent ocean.
She’s swimming diagonal to the shoreline,
almost like someone
caught in a riptide.
But she’s not. She’s going calmly—
of her own volition, retreating
from the beach where I lie.
I squeeze my shut eyes hard.
A sliver of her face
appears, a waning moon,
when her head turns
after every second stroke. Her mouth opens
just enough
to pull in air that holds life in her.
Fixed on something
she seems to see,
she keeps going.
She doesn’t struggle.
The current
doesn’t batter her.
It doesn’t carry her off.
She’s a white spot in the water—
she’s taking herself away—