Scuba Diver
My father would bring home abalone
from his scuba diving trips
At age five
I didn’t really know what it meant
or why his black suit hung in the garage
but at times I would find his mask
and try it on
and pretend I could hold my breath
for a long time
I haven’t eaten abalone in decades
my taste buds no longer yearn
for something endangered
at night
I think about the Pacific Ocean
its immeasurable depth
I wonder
if when he lowered himself
did the sharks
recognize another apex predator
amongst them
did the sea life and small fish
swim away from him
as I did
did the lighthouse
crumble when the waves were too much
these days
when I’m at the community pool
I try to explain to my grandsons
how grandma learned to hold her breath
for such a long time
Connie Post’s work has appeared in Calyx, Slipstream, Comstock Review, American Journal of Poetry, and Verse Daily. Her poetry awards include the Caesura award, Liakoura award, and the Crab Creek Poetry Award. Her full-length collections include Floodwater, Prime Meridian, and Between Twilight, which was a finalist for the 2023 Best Book Award and the International Book Award. Her 2023 chapbook, Broken Metronome (Glass Lyre Press), was a finalist for six book awards and won the American Fiction award for a chapbook and the NYC Big Book Award.
