My father’s arms are lifelines

Some of my earliest memories are of him
guiding me through water, 
his hands birthing me once more

The water, traversing the world so freely, 
rippling into itself, then outward towards the earth
I attempt to mimic its naturalness,
yet my stiff flesh cheats me

I am a newborn seal clutching my father’s back,
terrified of falling and drowning 
into the water’s depth, 
of being trapped forever, 
my spirit frozen among the blue shadows

“Don’t let me go”,
I silently beg as I tightly hug him

The strength in his shoulder blades reverberates,
his power palpable, transferring between our bodies 
maybe, one day, I too can stand tall
in the midst of open space, 
unafraid 

Potential energy transforms to kinetic,
my feet fall behind me and turn into torpedoes 
while I trail his path,
my hands catching swaths of his curly, thick chest hair

If I hold on tight enough,
he’ll never disappear
into the water, and
return to nature

I would give up everything 
to circle back and forth in unison again
with my sister as we create choppy tornadoes,
sweeping our father into a watery embrace,
my arms water guns, 
my laughs echoing into the bright blue sky,
the light yellow sun superimposed in the photograph of my memory,
my father here, once more, smiling


 
Moksha
My students and I are cleaning Ferry Point Park
where a small group of us witness a Hindu burial, 
the ashes and flowers spread into the water, granting renewal

Gleaming, fresh bright fruit covers the blanket, 
before which a shaman or grandmother, perhaps both,
sits and prays to her Gods, 
maybe for good karma, 
or Moksha, 
or for herself,
or to her heart in the water

A younger man, perhaps her son, stands thoughtfully in silence beside her
one of my students identifies their figures leaning over in swan dives,
releasing remnants, their blood kindled into the Earth in grey-brown crystals,

“Look Miss, it’s a Hindu ceremony!”
I, a proud Global History teacher, witness their knowledge bloom in real time,
recalling Toni Morrison’s urgent declaration to her own students: 
“...if you are free, you need to free somebody else. 
If you have some power, then your job is to empower somebody else.”

How can I encourage safe passageway in this cruel world of reckoning 
for my students, who have inherited trauma 
borne from figurative and literal triggers,
as I wade through my own pools of liquidated dreams?

My eyelashes trickle over with tears from memories of strangers in shadows,
nightmarish horrors committed against my body,
my parents’ tragic histories, 
my self forsaken 

Still,
I made it out alive
and sparkled ashore,
a vibrant pearl,
my heart intact even after shattering, 
swelling from love in the present, 
safety found in the intertwining of my lover’s arms,
kindling refuge

One day, we will all return to the water, nature’s womb;
may our passages be safe and full of love


About the author:

Whitney Graham is a Jamaican, Italian, French poet and NYC public high school teacher, with roots in South Florida. She received her MA in Adolescent Special Education from Hunter College and earned her BA in English and American Literature from NYU. Generational trauma, mental health, poverty, race and racism, revolution, and sexual abuse are frequently examined topics within her writing. Her poetry has been published in Crab Creek Review, Hope IRL, and October Hill Magazine.  

Feature image by Prayag Aghara on Unsplash