january by Laura Lamb Brown-Lavoie

january
Laura Lamb Brown-Lavoie

I am that smudge of yellow in a quick portrait of the sea

insane is one word for a naked woman on a winter beach
my feet are the first to accuse
as I remove my socks and shoes
hush feet you will get your rush of blood

rush of blood that’s one reason but the last
the first is cloth
how beloved it becomes as I take it off
beloved hat beloved scarf beloved sweater and top
beloved trousers beloved longjohns beloved underpants
how fine you all were to stand between me and the wind
how fine you are to wait

if ever there was a doubt about where I ended
the wind now makes it clear
I am sharpened
sharp my arms my cheeks my every naked part
sharked from this pause I run and there is no looking back
I would turn to salt

the moment I touch water I am under eyes open
and this is it

the dip
infinite instant
a lit blue
what the wind made sharp
the water now dissolves

my every particle finds a new molecule
blur that was my arm
disperse
disperse fingers and face

if I end
it is miles away
in every direction
cold reaches even
the tenders of my teeth

then I am above again a pride of organs
like sisters close in age and both precocious
my lungs and heart vie to prove their worth
I admire the grabbiness of lungs
I admire my thorough heart
I admire most that they are inseparable
what the lung grabs the heart uses
and drenches too the lung with blood

if ever there was a doubt
I am alive right now
smudge of yellow in a portrait of the sea

and she might be one of several myths
this specimen of warm bloodedness
stepping in over the waves
her true skin blubber born as she was under the fish

feet did I not promise you would tingle
I don’t run now
for I have won a moment beyond cold
but the wind is quick to carve my shape
so I accept the embrace of my clothes
sandy underpants sandy longjohns trousers
top and sweater hat and scarf

on the bus I am just another someone
looking out the window at winter

but some days I have a secret
if you licked me you would know

SELECTED BY JON SANDS

I love this poem so much. I love how she can anthropomorphize each piece of clothing as she sheds it to swim on a winter beach in January, and in doing so, she allows us to notice and appreciate the purpose of each piece of clothing. Then there’s more. There’s the arm, the fingers, the face. “the tenders of my teeth.” There’s the “pride of organs like sisters close in age.” The “grabbiness of lungs,” the “thorough heart.” She’s able to describe this solitary act of swimming in January as a group project, thus creating a wealth of intimacy within her own body, a love of body that feels in contrast to so much of the self-improvement and Instagram imagery that’s constantly sludged into our media diet. In this poem she’s able to make the body a community.

And the ending of all endings! To take this amount of time and care to describe this one swim, to do so in a way that allows the reader to feel it as holy, as I only imagine she felt it on that New England winter beach. And then to board the bus as “just another someone.”

But to also say that “if you licked me you would know,” knowing that (hopefully! at least out of nowhere!) that’s not how people engage on the bus, which is itself a room defined by movement and anonymity. If you board the bus after reading a poem like this, it will change the way you look at each passenger. How does a space change if you think of everyone there as having secrets that are this sacred and holy? How many of our own rituals could be proven this holy if afforded this level of description and patience?

I know this poem is about one woman swimming in January on a New England beach, but it always leaves me asking, how can we treat each other in a way that truly honors all that we don’t (and can’t) know about each other?

ABOUT JON SANDS

Jon Sands is a winner of the National Poetry Series, selected for his second poetry collection, It’s Not Magic (Beacon Press, 2019). He is the facilitator of the Emotional Historians workshop, a series of generative writing classes with well over 1000 registrants to date. His work has been featured in The New York Times, published in The Rumpus, The Millions, Cortland Review, The Brooklyn Rail, The Poetry Foundation website, and The Best American Poetry. He is a curator for SupaDupaFresh, a monthly reading series at Cheryl’s Global Soul in Brooklyn.