i never saw my grandpa pray
but once he’d brought his family
to live near the lake
he would rise early
cross the street shirtless
big tanned belly over
swim shorts brown Hawaiian
slides tan lines on long feet
toss a towel on the sand
throw great body
in with noise and celebration
that water his daily
baptism:
he would swim way out
churn a steady crawl
like a paddle wheeler drawing a line
up the middle of the okanagan
my grandmother
on a cranky beach chair
leather skin golden glistening Hawaiian
Tropic tanning oil smelling of coconuts
before I knew what coconuts smelled like
her tiny feet bathed in crystal water
mother of pearl toenails
mixed with pebbles
precious stones
on her hands
she showed me
my favourite stroke
ladylike: pick an apple
put it in the basket. pick
an apple, put it in the basket
this way you keep your hair dry
I never saw her swim underwater
not once
also:
how to pray on a rosary
how to roll out dough
fill ice cream buckets
up with christmas cookies
roll
a tough
little bottle
of nail polish
between ticklish palms
after they got engaged
my grandpa went
to my grandma’s house
and decked her father
in the face
her father
who in a rage once
tried to burn them all down
in the house he’d built with his hands
in my favourite photos of him my grandfather holds
alcohol
steering wheels
kids: black and white and colour
in my favourite photos of her she is
laughing while making food in the kitchen
she is posing on the hood of a car
the day before her wedding
good legs
bare feet
hair done, up in a ‘kerchief
i know him best
when i throw myself under
forgiving water
my hands are hers
when they are most useful
put to work, painful
able to give
Stacy Thomas 
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