Falling
“Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.” (Mark 9:24)
My child leans off the edge of the frame,
the ground three times her height away.
I hold her gaze during the moment’s fall
before I am enmeshed in
the ivy-bind of arms
and the silk web of her hair.
.
My child forgets the rule,
stands up in the boat,
stretches towards me.
He disappears beneath waist-high waves,
down to where my feet chill
on corrugated sand.
Dragging him out, I hold him
as he laughs from the safety of my shoulder,
his glossy hands drawing heat
from my skin.
.
I am falling, gaining speed,
arms wide like sycamore seeds.
With eyes tight shut against the upward rush,
its brush against my skin is the assured hand of Thomas;
its hoarse blather in my ears, the loosened tongue of Zechariah
blessing his first born.
