Since childhood, I’ve been fascinated by sea lions,
their big dark eyes—large enough to let in
refracted sunlight underwater.
Their sleek bodies. I envy them their
home in the seemingly
infinite, bewitching sea.
In the Central Park Zoo, they play
like sea acrobats, moving
for the sheer joy of it. One tosses a twig
up in the air and catches it on her nose.
Repeat. I admire her frolicking.
As a kid, I was part of the country club
swim team, loved competing
in the front crawl, and relay races
with the other kids in the Olympic-sized pool.
In my family’s small rectangular pool,
I was the youngest and smallest;
No matter: When we raced I beat
my big sisters at the crawl stroke in our pool.
Lithe and fast, I’m a smooth swimmer,
a twirling torpedo, like a sea lion.
On land, I can be clumsy,
lumbering into the corners of furniture,
purpling my legs with bruises. Sometimes,
I lie around like a tub of lard, trapped
by torpor, reveling in doing nothing.
We are the Lucille Ball of sea mammals.
The trick is to find my element:
water I can swim in and other sea creatures
to lie around with on the rocks.
Kim Bendheim 