that curly haired chesapeake

 a poem

I can swim. 

But you don’t know that, 

so when my feet hit the black water, 

you jump in after me, kicking 

your legs and putting your body next to mine. 

I’ll save you, you cry. I’m right here, 

just grab my collar and I’ll pull you back to shore.

So I let you think that I need you;

I tell you that you did a good job.

Then we do it all over again–

you rescue me until we’re both tired 

and we sit on the splintery dock;

we watch the sky and sea change color.

saltwater drips from your coiled brown fur

and clings to the wood in the shape of 

a thousand paw prints. 

I wrap my arms around you 

and whisper that

I love you, Coach.

But you already know that.