poetry

The River
by Mélanie Grondin

Wet Exit

Your ears are useless here The sounds are muffled. Drowned, Drowned out by the powerful, Raging Water. You cannot breathe, You cannot speak, You dare not open your eyes.

And doubled over, Quasi-fœtus style, You cannot turn without some help. A stranded baby turtle on the ground, Belly upwards to the sun.

So you grab forth, Way up ahead, And grope at the cord That links you back to life. Pulling it, you flip back, Ejected, Dejected, And lost. You leave your cocoon And emerge from the water, Head first To catch what feels like Your very first breath.

It nearly makes you cry.

Class I to V

At first The current lets you down So delicately, so gently, Right where you do not want to be. There is no thunder yet, You hear, Just the gentle rolling of the waves, Like a faucet, Like rain.

Now this turmoil you can handle. You keep your balance, You can cope. You flare out your arms To catch your fall, And surprisingly, you stay afloat.

But the next one, And the next Will surely make you fall. Will make you cringe and fear the worse, Tip your hat and exit More tired And more wet.

Eskimo Roll

With a flick of your hips You turn over and sigh.

You can now weather anything.

Mélanie Grondin lives and writes in Montreal. She has an MA in medieval literature and is currently studying creative writing at Concordia University.