In the late 1940’s, polio
scowled around the public pools
with its face in shadow, melodrama
of my mother’s warnings

slinking towards tragedy. Another kid
every weekend smiled bravely
through the Sunday centerfolds
from an iron lung. Mother hung

those photos in my bedroom, overlapped
them with a painting
of the Sacred Heart. Instead of a machine,
the open chest

of Jesus,
blood and all, pumped away
for me. Okay, but
steam rose

off the streets all summer
and wasn’t Galilee even hotter
than the Bronx? Why did Jesus
walk on water

when He could have splashed around in it?
Why were the kids
with polio always grinning in the newspapers?
So I snuck

into the neighborhood pool. Floated
and paddled and kicked. Held my head
under as long as I could. Just now
thinking about coming up.

–James Doyle,
The Long View Just Keeps Treading Water
Accents Publishing