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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

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