Wetsuit. Strange name, since it keeps me dry
and just warm enough
when the gulf temperature drops to 65.
I fight my way into rubber sleeves and legs,
wiggle to zip it up to my chin
until I’m a stuffed sausage.
As a child of the North I ran to the city pool
when summer air reached 65
oblivious to cold needles of pain.
Water seeker needs no divining rod. This day I approach
its acrobatics eager
to merge with the vastness.
Soft surf insists. Draws me forward. Brushes ankles
then knees, abdomen, chest—
I stride into its resistance.
Flexed arms pump for momentum.
Chest-deep I follow the shoreline,
walk strong within its power.
Bare hands stiffen. It’s worth
discomfort to have some skin slide
naked against the water.
Pelicans dive. Gulls follow.
Revel in its pulse.
I join the parade.
When the wind changes, as it always does,
aging legs and abs strain
against the edge of endurance.
An old woman, I portage water memory—
Minnesota’s lakes, the broad Mississippi
abandoned sailboats, water skis, canoes.
Lennie Hay is a 2019 MFA graduate of Spalding University. She grew up between two cultures—Chinese immigrants and Ukrainian German farmers. Lennie has been published in print and online journals and in two anthologies. Her book, Lost in America, will be published in June of 2024 by Broadstone Books.