Swimming in a Day or Two

Swimming in a Day or Two

october 2002

jp melville

Heat of the night inside this house,

The walls and ceiling exuding the temper of the day’s sun,

Which beat on the concrete roof for twelve grueling hours,

And I move slowly,

Padding across the tiled floors,

Drifting in a narcotic sweat,

Desperate for something,

Bed,

Oblivion.

My daughter, Olivia, not three years old,

Perspired from her brow and back,

Spread arms wide on her mattress,

Sunk heavily far away in her first hour of sleep.

Her brother, Ben, likewise,

I removed his shirt,

A whisper of relief from his skin,

Air brushed across his moist back.

Over by the wall I reached and clicked the switch

Of the ceiling fan from zero to low speed

And watched it ache into rotation,

The blades lethargic, unwilling,

Forced semblance of movement,

Then I closed the contact for the air conditioner,

Dull roar groaning under compression,

Cooled air like molasses,

Brought into motion,

Only to fade in the heat,

And I turned, stopped in the doorway,

Peered into the darkness

Where my children slumbered deep.

Move to my room,

Bend down and crawl under the mosquito net,

To my mat

To lie upon the floor,

On my back,

Hands clasped behind my head,

I stare up past netting

To the shadow of a whitewashed ceiling,

And notice the itch of insect pricks

Two on my legs and one on my wrist,

And wonder about malaria,

My stomach churning slightly ill

From the copious cold water I quaffed,

Which failed to quench my thirst,

From the raw nicotine of tobacco,

Which I had spit out in the toilet

And flushed down watching it swirl away

In viscous, tepid water.

Today I had met Americans and Belgians

In a house not far away,

A swimming pool and servants,

Gardens just enough unkempt

To know that no one really lives there,

Technocrats of global organizations,

Allegiances far distant from

A people and their soil

For whom the courtiers profess to care.

There was relentless air conditioning,

The drip drip drip of collected humidity

Into a bent tin can below the machine’s spout,

A pool of brown water seeping around its bottom,

Perforated pinholes from gathering rust.

There was fine wine

And pastries

Imported cheese

And chocolates

Passing from one exotic character to the next,

Lips rimming glasses,

Crumbs dusting chins.

All dressed in blue jeans,

International wear for all.

A long haired, pony tailed man,

Thin, breezy cheer, flash threatening smile.

Cropped hair, terse, tense man,

Stout, loud, and slouched.

A bulging, bear sized man,

Long winded, teller of tales among the people.

Odd contrast, all their women wives,

Passive, listening, attentive mice,

Who in another venue

Would profess the power of parallel careers.

And me and my kids

So my attention divided,

As I listen with one ear,

Sip my wine,

And attend to simple needs,

Pees and spills and pieces of pizza no green peppers please,

As I listen to talk of Cotê d’Ivoire

Ethnic cleansing,

One hundred thousand refugees

Crossing into Mali in two short days;

I hear talk of faltering fuel supplies

For kitchen propane stoves,

And rising prices because

No trucks dare move on southern highways,

And talk of who is who

Names I know nothing of,

All claims to savvy why for what and when.

Me thinking that the madness surrounding us,

Equals bullets, blood, and slaughter,

An unfathomable poverty,

Not just no food, no school, no vaccines,

But of anger, fear,

Centuries of elusive forces

Dark, unbreechable, seering the skins

Of utterly lost and drifting peoples…

Sweating sick empty men women

Seething mass

Of severed chaos

Of souls and mortal corps atomized

Sweating dew upon their naked breasts

Wet smacking wetness

Fecund stinging stench in their nostrils

Driving madness red coursing through their veins

With triggers in their fingers

Bullets in their belts

Lust bursting through their loins

Destruction flashing in their eyes

Futile bloody murder and defilement,

Pointless,

Helpless,

They rage upon each other.

Me thinking,

Still my back upon the floor,

Alone, hands behind my head,

Watching the ceiling fan turn slowly,

Pressing down on heavy heat

That I would take up the offer

To take the kids over swimming in a day or two.