Syncretism
My father does not believe in God or therapists—
instead, he pedals his bike past Brighton Beach
to the Coney Island Y to swim his fifty laps.
Once, I went with him and watched as he emerged
from the locker room in faded swim trunks
moving slowly to the edge of the pool. He paused,
lifting his hands over the gray halo on his chest,
pressing his palms together in a gesture
I know he learned as a boy.