After a mile I stop paddling and drift.
I strap an orange swim buoy around my waist
and then don the goggles, gloves, fins.

Like a mink on a rock, I slip off my board—
I begin arm over arm on my back 
towing the board behind me. 

The wind tickles the water’s surface. 
In the cool air I can’t help wonder 
if there is snow on top of Mount Washington. 

Alan’s admonishment gnaws at me: 
You can’t write a poem that considers the humanity of a terrorist—
a poem that prays for a sinner, like what Taha does in Revenge.

I think about Tsarnaev as a teen— 
said to have been gregarious, funny. 
He probably watched cartoons as a boy. 

Then as a young man his brother whispered
Bomb. In cartoons an explosion singes a finger—
a wall crumbles but the hero walks away unscathed.

To calm my stitch I take deep breaths.
I’m on a beautiful lake surrounded by mountains. 
I flip over and swim crawl. 

I want to better understand lapses
in judgment—including my own.
I think about what it means to be human.