Breaststroke
by and published in Edition Eleven of Pomegranate
She told me nothing had changed
since the day she cried in the swimming pool.
Trying to hold her form with fruitless leg kicks.
Weakened, I imagined, choked and dripping.
Eyes heavily chlorinated.
She submerged when swimmers passed in
parallel lanes. Between them, red buoyed string
bobbing. No cover for whatever I had done.
How many lengths she did?
Less than usual.
And on the cold return to the cubicles
did she disobey the signs? Did she
run?