The Drowning Man

i'm sorry officer

i was nine in the summer
of a wide glassy lake
in the wilderness of childhood
and a floating dock
trembling over the waves, slowly coughing
water-logged
stretching my arms like a plastic bag
a broken windmill
the sun spears the crests
and the back of a burnt-skinned hero
a tumor with toes
curled in the wood of buoyancy
i grip the edge of a watery cliff
until dripping flesh
throws itself against my face-struck

and i drowned.

and that is why I
am sitting here with
my arms in the bathtub
strangling my daughter