I Jumped Off the Diving Board of Creation

and belly-smacked onto the murky 

chlorined water of the hotel pool.

A low board, for safety, liability,

insurance. I had to make the most 

of my risk, bouncing high, then 

spread-eagling into the imagination 

of birth, or the birth of imagination.

I hit the water, my belly whupping 

against it, then sank, then rose, 

my chest crackling red from the chemical 

and physical sting. The icy water took 

my breath as an unforeseen bonus. I gasped

rising to the surface, alive with mad

dripping as I swam to the rounded edge

of the kidney-shaped pool, eschewing 

the shallow end on principle. My eyes 

reddened with sting, I held on to the deck, 

facing the brutal fence beside the highway.

Where was I? Why had I taken that exit? 

Did they have free postcards in the office

next to the weekly newspaper from Mars? 

I pushed myself up and out on my spindly 

young arms. Eschewing the thin abrasive 

hotel towels, I climbed back up the ladder, 

full of chewing and eschewing

and jumped off the slippery blue board again 

as the sun set behind the freeway, and headlights

clicked on and the mad hum of automobiles 

sung the constant song of my childhood. 

Over and over again, I jumped in, writing 

my first poem line by line. After all, 

there was no one waiting. The ladder,

the board, the water, all mine.