Holding My Breath
April 30 2008


I swim, most days
up and down a lane
drifting in and out of thought,
in a fluorescent goose-bump pool
that stinks of chlorine
and old standing water.
Like some mutant fish, goggle-eyed
I peer out at soft pale bodies
thrashing up and down, on either side.
And kids, doing cannonballs.
And fancy divers, practicing.

The lifeguards look bored,
pacing, chattering.
And tinny music plays,
reminding me of skating rinks
under swaying strings of light
— couples circling hand-in-hand
to Elvis songs
and old hit parades.
The PA echoes inaudibly
off hard cinderblock walls.
And the diving board goes “sproiiing ...”
then a few dying flutters,
like some smart-alecky schoolboy
blubbering his lips in the back row.

But underwater, there is total silence
as I stop and drift.
I prefer it like this
— miserly bubbles
dribbling-out, through pursed lips;
my heartbeat
reflexively slowing;
and my thoughts
growing louder and louder inside,
barely confined
to my eggshell skull,
this thin layer of bone.
Where I depend upon the weight of water
keeping me whole.