My poems won't teach you how to swim

My poems won't teach you how to swim.

They tell you that

when you are inside that blue-green water,

you flip your hands, your legs,

you resemble a fish,

a big fish infact, a dolphin

sometimes you look like a mermaid to me.

They tell you that

the kid who used to jump into the village pond

had a name too.

And when he went for the lotus in mid-water

for the Shiva temple priest's daughter

a black chiti licked his feet.

My grandmother told me his tale

and I never set my feet inside.

My poems will tell you that

I don't know how to swim.

They will always tell you that

it must be amazing

diving into that blue-green water

coolness spreading all over

feeling the lightness of being.