Genevieve Cohn, What I Would Carry, 2018 (Artist Website)
Acrylic on canvas
42” x 48”
My mother was buoyant,
in water she was a float
supreme, held no shame
in the folds of her body.
She'd let me climb atop
her one-piece, the suit
with straps that would slip off
her shoulders ashore,
but in the depths of lakes,
they’d rise, u-shaped twin halos
paralleling her neck. This
was but one part of her holiness.
Just beneath her collarbone,
right above her breasts, I'd hug,
careful, and only after ample
practice, to leave space between
my arms, her soft skin. Breathing
room. And we'd dive. We’d
submarine. With smooth winged
moves, we'd wave beneath
the surface. Below: minnows,
pondweed, wild celery, the one
bass nest. She'd point out
the bladderwort and I'd hold it
in no longer. I’d break
our stream of gloss
with bubbles of underwater
snickering. Remembering
the names of plants and fish
was for the surface. Once on
the lake's horizon, we'd dip
below again, sink in
the fluid silence. Submerged,
our bodies turned vessel of one
on a single gulp of air.