Rise

Rise

I breathe: dank water, ripe algae, sweat, damp wood, our sweat. I pull legs up to lift my body; pain shoots up my back. This isn’t right. Dizzy, I try to tuck my head between my legs, but bile rises when I bend. Lifeguards are too far to hear me unless I shout. I don’t want to cause a fuss— a fat guy in khakis just fell on my head.

Hell. My body doesn’t respond as it always has. I can’t raise my hand up to wave―pressed flat on the wood, cheek chafed by splinters, I grab my shorts and heave. My legs land heavy on the dock like the canoes on dry sand. Onto my belly I roll, scraping my knees when I gather them beneath me inch-by-inch. Every movement is fish on land.

It’s the kind of pain I can’t swallow, can’t identify—a spit bait.

On my knees—and still, no one notices—I crawl to a short pillar, pull myself up. My feet suddenly disconnect

from my body. The carp must feel this when its fins disintegrate, feel water pass

where it shouldn’t.

Brace yourself.

My feet complain when I beg them to move. I shuffle plank by plank until my toes touch sunlight. The air is sweeter. I shake off a faint, see bright carp pushing their bodies through muck in figure eights. Each step new fire.

Hope, like sun, burns hot in my veins. Yes, beat circles, move forward —I’ve got to do something,

anything but stand still.