Ritual
Like a banner at a medieval fair,
the white chevron bisects
fields of pink, rectangular above
and two triangles below,
and at its center a dark crest,
a mythical beast with a wild black mane.
The white is the skin that lay beneath
my Speedo at the beach, the pink
the tender skin that my cycling clothes had covered.
With my abs above and thighs below
like flamingos or high clouds at sunset
or suckling pigs, but hard and strong beyond their years,
and the dark mane a thatch of wiry hair
untouched by gray, my crotch
the youngest feature on this middle aged terrain,
diminished neither by doubt nor disuse,
a proud lion on a drought wracked plain.
Away from the mirror, long swim trucks
pulled up and tied, through the showers
to the university pool, across the cool tile,
over the edge, the shock of cool water.
I adjust my goggles like an aviator on the runway
and push off, parting the smooth blue surface,
sensation of bubbles jetting past
clean shaven legs, as Neruda writes –
nothing but the pure, the sweet,
the thick part of my own life,
nothing but form and volume existing,
guarding life, nevertheless in a complete way –
in Ritual of My Legs – mis piernas –
in the delicious years before the Spanish Civil War,
and he adds – People cross the world nowadays
scarcely remembering that they possess a body
and life within it – and so it is that I am reminded,
by the sting of the sunburn, by the outlandish
pink and white bands, and by the slippery
interface of flesh and water, the strong
rhythmic stroking across the blue skin
of the world, and by the sweet smile
of the lifeguard when I retrieve my ID card
and turn for the locker room.
