The maple treewas the first to go.The shadow it castover the waterwas like swimming undera great white shark.At least,that is what I told myself.
A decade later,the pool had to go too.And with itall my momentsthat contained a certainsmoothness I lackin terrestrial life.
Back then, my mother’ssimple solutionfor fixing my hairwas alwaystemporarily relievedunderwater.
A film of cream rinsecurdled around mewaiting to dissolvein the evening treatmentof chlorine. I can’t tell if my fingersmiss being wrinkledand my lips, their purple huefrom waters too cold,or my ratty hair underwaterfor the only time ever, elegant.
(previously published in Poet’s Basement)