I’ll risk no touch, this time, no hint of aid or rescue 
at sea. I’m alone and not. Turning to breathe, I glimpse 
the big white arrows my sister chalks on the tug.

She writes because I can’t hear much over the motor, 
nothing beyond the gramophone. Meg sets my pace 
with jazz. I love dancing. My blood drums to reach 

and kick. Doctors warn the sea will destroy my ears,
but I’m happiest here—crawling steadily. On land,
they say, I’m loud and awkward. Journalists report

my progress around the globe; the story’s ghost-
written for me, sold and packaged. This summer,
I’m larger than life, but I prefer my distant hours

in the water, all tedium and speed. The waves grow 
choked with flotsam, storm swollen—my favorite
weather, my dangerous pledge of luck—glazed amber 

through the goggles waxed to my face. I refuse
to notice when they call me from the escort tug: 
out, girl, out of the water. It’s too rough for music, 

but the ocean muffles doubt. As the tide changes, 
Meg sings—I glean only a wordless hum. I’m tuned 
to the final meters, blind to the camera flash ahead.