Swim team churning four bodies per lane
chicken wings, cupped hands, whirling feet,
flip turns angle them the opposite way. I
reach, lengthen, alone in my lane, deliberate
and half asleep, my favorite dream swim
state, early morning, thoughts flitting fast
as my scissoring ankles, lifting my heavy
arms from tense shoulders, releasing my
neck, until I meld with water and glide,
garden hose sunk into the deep end cooling
the pool below its noontime hothouse state.
A boy in knee length loose trunks rushes
past me, girl in sleek yellow tank suit, both
clutching white foam between their thighs
while I kick loosely, widen my back, enjoy
the well my arm makes for crawl breaths
either side. When I was younger I was
burdened with competitive narration as
I moved through other swimmers. I so
longed to be admired, to feel better than
in the years when every day in every way
I praised my wake, ignored what lay ahead.