Cannonball
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The Poem
Cannonball
Nobody taught him this.The cannonball is not learned —it is the result of a pool and a summerand a body that has not yet received the memoabout dignity, about composure,about entering rooms and pools and liveswithout making a scene.
The memo arrives later.He hasn’t read it yet.He is entirely airborne and entirely correct.
His mouth is open.Not braced. Not held.Not the careful intake of breathadults take before the cold thing arrives —open,making the sound that exists only at the apex of a cannonballwhen the water is comingand the body knows itand has decided the appropriate responseis to be as loud as possible about it.
His mouth is open
This is what we lose.Not the cannonball — the open mouth.The willingness to make the sound the moment requiresregardless of who is watching,regardless of the composed adults at the edge of the poolwho have read the memoand are entering the waterin a way that disturbs as little of it as possible.
We spend our lives learning to disturb as little as possible.The cannonball is the argument against this.
Ninety percent.That’s what we should keep.Ninety percent free, ninety percent loud,ninety percent airbornewith our mouths open and the sun in our hairand the only appropriate responsebeing the biggest splash we can make.
Ten percent we show up serious.Ten percent we honor the memo.Ten percent is enough for the memo.
The sun came with him.Yellow and orangeand the teal of the water already rearranging itselfaround the fact of his arrival —the splash that will soak everyone within rangeand nobody will actually mindbecause this is what joy does —
it lands in the middle of the composed lifeat full velocity with its mouth openand makes a messand the mess is the pointand the point is that you were here,fully here, loudly here, dripping-wet here —for the ninety percent that asked you to be free —
and you said yes from the highest point,yes all the way down,still yes when you hit the water —mouth open, sun in your hair, the splash going everywhere,which is exactly where it was always supposed to go.
The splash going everywhere
Nobody taught him this.He already knew.We all already knew.
The memo made us forget.
The cannonball remembers for us.