christopher sturdy

Swimming 101

Chlorine and sunscreen waft off the water
as my dad plunges to the bottom
of the pool, traversing its length for a time
which feels animal.
I lose count after three minutes.

Later, he holds me,
one hand near my neck, the other on the small of my back.
Water lapping at ears. Chin points up, chest higher,
higher than what feels natural. There you go. His voice
sounds like it is coming from my stomach, his words growing
inside me like a small truth people forget again and again.

You can float like this. Save energy, the water will hold you.
He steps away and I sink, water over chest and face.
I open my mouth to stockpile air, but only receive
chlorine. He holds me again. I cough back
into the world. I gotcha, Junior. I gotcha.

***

Napping on an inflatable unicorn in Lake Minnetonka. No one notices
the rope detach. I float outward from boat like balloons lost
to sky until I wake, cold water coating my throat.

I picture my drowning as a wispy sprite, arm movements
measured, arcing above the surface creating water fireworks,
a spectacle to behold until I get one
arm slung around the unicorn, the other faking
an attempt at playing lifeguard for the lifeless.

Because of course it isn’t my life I’m saving. Saving isn’t
whirlwind limbs and lungs filling like an hourglass.

Saving is graceful, like my father
in his rescue swimmer graduation photo, grinning
while a man gently kisses his cheek, a man I know
nothing about, the photo my mother always tossed
back in the pile.

***

Empty beer bottles line the edge
of our usual Applebees table. When my father utters
divorce, the windows shatter, flooding the restaurant biblically.

My father chews his lips
shut as water rises around us. Ankle-deep,
I watch him cry
about my mother, his life. Knee-deep,
he looks at me, sigh settling into smile. Waist-deep,
I pick him up in my arms and carry him
to the car.

Black pavement pools beneath tires, reminding me not all waters are blue
and chlorinated, blue with algae, some are just suburban, stale, suffocating.
I adjust his chin and chest, so he can stay afloat

next to me as I drive us home.
But my father won’t let go,
his arms hooked around my shoulders keeping me
passenger side.

I picture my father, remarried
to a man he loves recklessly, loves like he did
back at the academy, the years our family leaves
out.

And I hold him in his SUV
in the black abyss of a parking lot.
I don’t say anything, but I hold him.

Hometown Rock Stars

Before your bowed head 
polished porcelain, the three of us laid outside, 
grass scratching backs, making up star stories 
from astrology’s constellation rejection pile. And sure, 
we were drunk and high dreaming and healing from parents 
who stabbed us with sunflowers, then plugged the holes 
with yellow petals only to say, See? Good as new. Because
Of course, it is easy to cover your hurt in the color of the sun;
Of course, school counselors aren’t perfect at their job;
Of course, we’re too young to know what to do with this hurt.

Nik’s constellation, Krupa Major, 
the astral drummer who keeps the tempo 
of time intact. Fixing temporal fluctuations 
through high-hat, snare drum, crash cymbal.

Your constellation, A. Winehouse, 
the stardust lover who holds the dying 
as they find their place among the asteroids and supernovas.

My sunflower-stuffed mouth sat overwatered 
by swallowed tears and the future fears that you were saying 
what I thought you were.

&&

A list of things I try to forget
Each day after waking up older than 27:

Pinky promises in the backseat.
Nik digging for your uvula.

Bile & pills. The smell 
of your dad’s Macallan.

Arm bands. Voices fighting over
911 calls and ice baths.

Black & Milds. Only making eye contact
with cash registers in gas stations.

&&

I bought my first calendar in 2016. Each night, 
I’d rip the day like we used to rip flower petals off our skin. Each day 
I didn’t get a call with your name, a gift. I hadn’t prayed in years, 
but I prayed that year.

I prayed for 28.

&&

After the funeral, classmates didn’t know about the rope
you’d made from your sunflower stalks. They didn’t
know you died above a flowerbed in your parents’ 
garage. And yet they still talked about the 27 Club.

Hendrix & Joplin & Cobain & Winehouse—
your constellation. Sing-a-longs in the backseat,
your truths about trips to rehab—and they used
words like destined and inevitable and uttered

phrases like, What could we have done anyway?
They dragged me from the bar after I punched
someone for saying glory, a dead girl, our very own 
hometown rock star. They left me out 

there, wood bench, cloudless night sky.
Me tracing your stars from ten years ago. And
I thought of supernovas and how they die before
we even know. What year did you supernova?

Sometimes, if I’m drunk enough, if I feel close
enough to someone, I show them A. Winehouse
in the night sky. I show them you, up there cradling
souls as you help them discover what stardust holds.