Source to Mouth

By Sonya Schneider

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Last night, my grandmother swam
breaststroke through me, water and blood
sluicing her heart-shaped face. Pull, breathe,
kick, glide, was her certain rhythm.
Each time her hands joined in prayer,
a ripple of lightness lit
my veins’ long tributaries.

I lay under warm sheets with closed eyes
and felt her carve a path forward.
She swam up my thigh’s inner bank
and rested in my womb’s shallow pool.
As she flowed, she wasn’t afraid
to slow, to slough off fear and regret.

Something about her tempo
invited in guests. Women
I’ve never met bathed
in my estuaries, their breasts
goldened by a new moon.

Fresh water mixed with salt, voices             merged. My mother sang a Berkeley              ballad. My daughters tipped back
their heads, drank from her falls.