Rope
Ella Hatfield
My father used to own a boat for Saturdays when
we’d ski the Little Wall Lake, or tube, or
swim, or fall off the boat and laugh as we bobbed
in our padded vests.
Mom would make sandwiches
and a giant bowl of watermelon cubes.
By the beach, kicking at waves,
the younger ones are sea-gull calling
when the boat whips by.
If faith is anything anymore, it is the rope,
the time my skis slipped off in the wake
and I forgot to give up
Hands clasped, wet and burning,
as I was pulled under, but
not drowned
All we have is rope.
All we have is rope.
Waterlogged and burning