If the boat tipped
in white water,
I learned to hold on
to my paddle.
If my feet slipped
while climbing the wall,
I learned to hang on
to the rope.
I learned to cling
to the covers
when sleeping
with a restless lover.
And lost in the cliffs
as the sun went down
I learned to hold on
to instinct and hope.
All my life, I have learned
to hold on. To cradle
my children when they cry.
To grab the wheel when
the car veers on ice.
The first two stanzas are so concrete, and then that shift toward the abstract is perfect. The lover stanza begins it and the cliff stanza leaves you (and the reader) grasping at the incongruous. Very nice.
That last stanza — Why not eliminate the hold on, which is what the poem has been demonstrating throughout. Also, the word “grab” seems wrong. It suggests you weren’t hanging on to the wheel before the car swerved, and if that’s the case, remind me never to ride with you:)
“All my life, I have learned
to cradle my children
when they cry, to clutch (?) the wheel
when the car veers on ice.”
The title is wonderful.