Under
Where is that joy
of swimming underwater,
counting the bars
of the grate
twelve feet down?
Where are the hot lungs
that hold and hold with
the sweet determination of
a woman about to come
breaking through
the scalded surface, breaking
through the lip of water
into the air
as sharp as alcohol?
The Knife Against the Wave
When you were born, your skin
seemed jaundiced.
They ordered bloodwork,
and a giant of a man took
your foot – no bigger than
his thumb – and nicked your heel
with the corner of a razor blade,
over and over and over,
squeezing your soft flesh for
the smallest spots of blood.
This was the first time
the world would hurt you
and make me watch
your suffering. I told that man,
Enough! Touch her again,
And I'll kill you.
I was ready to come
across the table and strangle him.
He shook his head.
No, little mother, he said
in the tenderest voice. I must
hurt her just a little more.
Last night I dreamed I stood
waist-deep in the ocean,
holding a kitchen knife
against each wave. Walls
of water, scalloped like the knife,
surged forward. But I commanded
that the waves divide and
let you pass unscathed.
The water broke around me
as I tried to slice each wave
in half for you. I stood there,
calm and resolute, making certain
I kept the sharp edge out.
Sharon Weightman Hoffmann is a writer based in Atlantic Beach, Florida. She is a former editor of Kalliope, a journal of women’s art. Publications include New York Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, Alice Walker: Critical Perspectives (Harvard University Press), Isle of Flowers (Anhinga Press), South Florida Poetry Journal, Letters, Poetica, Wild Roof, Sho, Qu, and other magazines. Awards include fellowships from Atlantic Center for the Arts and Florida’s Division of Cultural Affairs, and two Pushcart nominations.
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