Lisa Swanstrom
PANAMA HOUSE
You wouldn’t swim
near the net fence
where whistle buoys
stopped the wet,
grey noses
from gouging smells
in skin canals.
Instead you rolled your pants
to wade for whelks
and spirals
in the tide pools.
The cloth bunched above
your shins
like all the houses
in Panama,
legs kept skinny to keep
the body safe,
stilts on the sand of the beach,
the wood gathered
up like a sweater, the air
flowing underfoot
to let the greener, chevronned fish
walk under.