[Four Poems] by Virginia LeBaron

Four Poems

by Virginia LeBaron

Bathyal

We have cut each other

loose, like fisherfolk

who push out hooks

with calloused thumbs,

toss the small ones back.

They go on to survive. Find their school.

But when the wind kicks up

a certain way, slides the water

like cellophane over bait with a silver glint

that, this time, looks different –

there is that age-old tug

deep in the membranes of our slimy gums.

And right before all is almost all lost, again,

we pull away from air and light

cast our lot with the underworld,

move darker. Pass kelp and coral and translucent arcs

of sea creatures that bend

in our wake, graze their soft fingers

along the ragged edges of our mouths.

I love you best

when you stutter           

that flustered   belly-up instant

marooned                    on the shore, scales glinting

before the words                     rush up

and pull you back                                to the blue circling

of nothing                       

of particular importance

Currents

These are the amps, the works, the juice

that make it all flow.

The taster’s first bite. Glass

ground against cud. Curtains,

lips, about to be parted,

both runway and shackles readied

by sleight of hand, mirrored breath

a belt loosened, a hand too hot.

One body that should know better,

asking more of flesh than fair.

East Whiteland Swim Club, Memorial Day

She watched lifeguards

in cherry-red suits,

whistles dangling

from young necks.

She watched them lug

huge trashcans of goldfish

to the edge

and pour barrel

after barrel into the pool,

and children—so many children!

follow after. Frantic, screaming,

desperate children. Children leaping,

cannon-balling, reckless,

plastic bags in hand.

She watched someone push her

into the shallow end. She watched

fish die on contact,

their gills on fire.

Others caught, raised high,

to die moments later

bumping against walls

of plastic tombs, silver bellies up.

She watched children cry,

clamber out of the pool, suits sticking

to thin, pale legs. She watched mothers

put out Newports in the sand.

She watched herself stand,

at the very end, stillin

a circle of dead fish, flashing

like floating coins.

She watched her small hands

skim the surface, press fish to her face

in hopes of resurrection.

She watched lifeguards

use their whistles

and big nets, scoop dead fish

back into trashcans.

She watched mothers

gather up their children, lay down

towels in the backseat, careful

not to get the seats wet.

Virginia LeBaron is a nurse and a poet. Her writing is inspired, in part, by her experiences caring for patients with cancer. She is the author of one chapbook (Cardinal Marks, Finishing Line Press, 2021) and her poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Mom Egg Review, The Potomac Review, Bicoastal Review (contest finalist), Winter Anthology, and Pigeon Pages, among others. Her writing has been supported by a residency with the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts and the Lighthouse Poetry Collective. In 2025, she was a finalist for the Arts & Letters Rumi Prize for Poetry and the winner of the Luminaire Poetry Award from Alternating Current Press.