On Islands and Mainland

Prior to adolescence
my mother brought me to Wildwood.
Neither of us returned from Jersey
with beach burns fading to tans.
I only owned a snorkel
when visiting my old man
but I begged for a diving knife
at a gift shop on the boardwalk
so it rode home in the suitcase
that divorced kids know too well.

The stainless steel dagger
serrated on one side
an inch above the ricasso
was stamped with shame:
"Taiwan".
Four holes spanned the grip
to lighten
or for fingers
if you wanted them all broken
in a fight you'd entered to lose.

Its sheath was black and plastic
with a lever on a spring
that held the knife in place
when it wasn't stabbing sharks.
Through four slots in the sides
wove holed and buckled rubber
to strap it to a leg
though it only fit my arm;
a measuring mistake
made by young Asian makers.

It collected dust
in a surplus ammunition crate.
A few years later
when I felt the need for change
I tethered it to the bedpost
nearest the door and window
within my teenage reach.
The shiny blade protected me
from what I didn't know to fear.

It remained a silent sentry
until I moved upstate for college.
Where my mother put it
I've never called to ask.
What do you do with a diving knife
that you don't and never needed?

I hope a kid left a yard sale
newly inspired to swim.



Currently reading:
"Outer Dark" by Cormac McCarthy.