Swimming Pool Soliloquy

This morning’s muted yellow
 kisses darkness as clouds shift, a 
waning moon sighs, the last of 
night’s curtain drawn by a
 lustrous blackbird that swoops
 under fading stars to disappear
over the coral clay rooftops of
 houses over the fence. At the
 edge of the pool an iridescent 
mallard and his dowdy wife
 waddle out disgruntled as I slip
 into their private bath where,
 seconds before they’d been
 paddling in peace. I wall hang,
 tug my goggles as a giant eye
 drifts into shape above, snap
 my cap in place, roll into a low
 dive, whip kick once—and
 remember breath, the hand
 that forces down until its
 calculating fingers constrict
 like a boa, until it twists my
 throat in shame, until I finally
 learn how to breach without
 the choke, the gasp, the cry.
 Now, the water’s coolness
 brushes my skin like feathers of
 a blue gossamer heron, like a
 silken hug; my body thus
 caressed carries its bulk into the
 undulating motion of a lost sea 
longing for an aching desert’s
 moaning breath. I lift my
 elbow high, drop it then slice 
into a tapered spin, realize it’s
 been one year now, just as tiny
 circles form, ripple and
 disappear; just as the
 monsoon’s rains begin—