Arion

Hard to roll the wheelchair to poolside,

and the orderlies, swerving,

joke with him: how many quads

to unscrew a light bulb? How many

paras to unhook a bra? That one

he's heard, & the other one too.

Brakes on now, pool-water dimpled,

salt taste against his tongue as they

lower him, device a slapdash hybrid-

net, aluminum chair & canvas straps.

Above his shoulders, a tingling,

but the water's mostly taste

& memory, coalescing its restless forms:

Brighton Beach some thirty years gone,

his able muscled calves & thighs.

The dolphin spies him first from below,

legs dangling, though no more

useless-seeming to her

than any land-born thing's. She circles,

slower with each rotation,

& ever-closer, whirlpool & roil,

silvery trireme-prow of dorsal fin,

beak lathing wave, the blowhole's chuff.

& then the eyes meeting his,

until it's only the two of them here,

the orderlies gone, the wet-suited

keepers with pails of squid.

& he wants, like Arion, to sing.

So it's Gershwin at first, tentatively hummed,

& then "Norwegian Wood" & "I've Just

Seen a Face," so loud his voice-

she showed me her room-

is breaking. & now her beak,

open to the pink mouth, the jaws'

tympanic snap-isn't it good? . . .-

blunt teeth, & her cackling

high-pitched harmony--so I lit

a fire-nuzzled beak against

the salt-rinsed bristle of his beard.

O brine & glossololic swirl, their eyes

still locked, the water seething.

& when I awoke / I was alone... .