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Dead Poets

Author Biography
Poetry By
  Kate Moscato Leen

Published on: 2/19/2013
Morning Swim

The stillness of the surface tells me nothing.
No question can be asked, no memory, no time.
The water creeps to my waist, but no—I
Am moving into it.

There is no one here, this unforgiving morning.
They will make their visitation later,
With the sun and warmth of early summer
On their shoulders.

Stroking far beyond the grasping weeds,
The deep is marked by nothing but a trick
Of light, bottle-green and filtered through
The surface.

A thought invades, unwelcome and repeating:
The child drowned in this very lake,
Held down by milfoil, not found for
Seven days.

I stop, orient myself up to
The grey sky and treetops, empty buildings,
Far-off dock with towel and shoes, keys and
One sock,

Then plunge once again into the endless
Curiosity of depths, peering long
Enough to ask the question no one
Wants to answer.

Each flinching glance into the deep a wound,
Each sacred, fought-for breath a work of mercy.

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