The Lap Swimmer

Midday. Roped into six lanes,
the pool glimmers hushed and expectant,
a glass table in an antechamber,
reflecting only blank faces:
lap-swimmers do not smile.
I splash in, sink up to my neck,
prepare for the ritual. I press my heels
against the tile, push off, my hands
outstretched and clasped in a plea.
The water responds like a love letter
as my body cuts the envelope. That’s one.
I touch and turn. I have married the water
and we shall fight but grow old together.
That’s two. I reach and push away
water, my husband’s needled mouth,
my children’s eyes, closed as fists,
the heirloom plate cracking on the floor,
my mother’s reproachful voice. That’s five.
The greasy residue of the day
dissolves. I keep my eyes dry,
watch it whirl away. I’m prim
as a matron, the parts you can see.
That’s ten. My frog legs agitate
and kick away water, that long wait
for the check-out line, what didn’t come
in the mail again, last night’s sex,
the life I could have had; that’s twenty.
The kiss of the broken water mends me.
That’s thirty. I am almost whole.

Originally appeared online in Disquieting Muses Quarterly

Index Of Published Poems