after Frida Kahlo

I caught a bluefish in the brackish
Kennebunk, rode belly-in to the shore
on the flat churn at Newport, dropped
headfirst off a wave to dry sand at Southampton,
glided end-to-end across too many pools
in a single breath, gulped in and
panicked at a swim meet, skinned
my shin showing off on the diving board

into the one in our backyard, skinny-dipped
with six housemates at the motel pool
next to the highway; the manmade fountain
that spilled over the manmade lazy river
at Pharaoh’s Lost Kingdom was more zen
than the waterfall north of Poughkeepsie.

In the deepest part of the St Lawrence Seaway,
I spun the tin boat, knocked myself overboard.
Again, me in the water, screaming for safety.
I found my junior lifeguard badge
from summer camp after first grade.

The counselor who trained us
warned that a drowning person
would pull us under, terribly strong from panic.

Approach from behind, he said,
grab around the body, careful
to avoid the arms, and sidestroke back.

Approach from the front,
dive under, grab their legs
and twist so they are facing away.

It is the only way to save them,
or they will drown you, too.
The water is patient.

I couldn’t pull myself
into the boat, but I can bicycle kick.

James Ducat’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Penn Review, Carve, Belingham Review, CutBank, Apogee, Spoon River Poetry Review, has been featured on Verse Daily, and is anthologized by The Infectious Review, Orangelandia and others. His chapbook A Field of Nopes is from Bamboo Dart Press. James holds an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles and is associate professor of English and creative writing at Riverside City College, where he advises the literary journal MUSE.