the tops of my thighs were burning in the sun
before jumping into cold brown water in my
underwear and someone’s dad’s extra shirt. they said,
don’t tell her about the snakes. she won’t go in.
but I had too much poison in my veins already. sheer
acid, those long fourth of july days, lying
through my teeth and sobbing in three act
structure. do you know how to play poker
with your implosion, dealing the cards just right?
I’m coming to understand that I don’t
really know how to swim, I tell them. head
under, for as long as I can stand it. skin singeing on the
burning dock. the rocking of man-made waves, hypnosis
of recorded sound slipping over the surface. the sink of
mud all the way up to my calves like silty jello, cringing
gritting I can do this. I can, almost. when I leave alone
I pin up a smile with needles. but I have not fooled her
mother, who slips a handful of chocolate into my palm
at the door, whispering: I’m sorry. I guess the lie wasn’t
that hard to see, if they had wanted the truth. I’m sorry
too, I want to say. but instead, I offer only: thank you
for your hospitality.
Julian Myles