First Love
were still alive when
my mother plunged
half her body into
our above ground pool
& pulled
me up by the heel.
Yet people here still
call me the boy
who would not drown,
though I am old & she,
dead. Strange that
I remember so little
of the previous year
but I do know the exact
shade of lipstick she
wore, how
she scolded me, &
weeks later, when
they tore down the pool,
the panels falling away
like an orange,
how the yard smelled
of chlorine for weeks.
It seemed a swing set
rose overnight
there, a flower
garden sprouting
alongside, flush
with what bloomed
where I would
not perish.
No comments:
Post a Comment