#002 Thalassophobia

Poem

A poem for my grandmother, who was terrified of water. After her death in February of 2025 we discovered albums and albums filled with photos of her at the beach, playing, laughing, and reveling in the water.

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She is afraid of water. I know this
when she clutches the small life raft
of my hand, as if my child body
is all that roots her to the concrete.

No boat ride today.
There were news stories always
the inebriated woman pulled
under, the captain who capsized
unexpectedly, the child dead
in a shallow tide pool
always my age. She prays for them,
Blessed mother! Watch over them!
Afterall, she is a religious woman
and there is no excess of people to pray for.

I follow her from the river harbor
into Philadelphia streets.
Forty feet deep! Can you imagine?
As if water dared and insulted us
by reaching such depths.
City noise blares over her tangent,
buildings with infinite windows, nose wrinkling smells
leering eyes that make me shrink closer to her,
and I think I can imagine, I think
this must be what drowning feels like without her
in this chaos I would be unmoored
as a sand locked boat, no lighthouse
to guide me through to safer waters.
Now, it is my grip that white knuckles hers.

Later, I ask her why she is afraid of water.
She fiddles with the cross around her neck and says,
it is so dark,
you cannot see the bottom.