Swim Lessons
by Judith Lee Herbert
to my father
Gray-green sea meets sky that never ends,
shores disappear. Cloud of seagulls
above glistening foam. I see you
rise from the deep, translucent,
swim your powerful crawl—the one you taught me—
in choppy waters. We meet in timelessness.
I want to tell you that rightist forces, like those
you fought, are surging, that the baby in my arms
at your deathbed, grown now, bears your legacy––
but you swim on. Raucous cries of gulls
pierce the air, windblown nimbus clouds loom.
You warned me of undertow and changing currents.
Rocked by riptides, I fight to keep afloat.
Thunderous breakers crash on the shore.
A graduate in English Literature from Columbia University, Judith Lee Herbert is a poet and practicing psychotherapist. Her chapbook, Songbird, (Kelsay Books, 2019) placed in the Blue Light Chapbook Competition in 2017. Her poems have placed in various contests and appeared in numerous magazines and anthologies, including Sensitive Skin Magazine, The Ekphrastic Review, Poetry Bay, LI Quarterly, and Some of the Best Long Island Poetry: 2024. She lives in New York City.
