Isabel

16

Summer Break is a Swim in the Pool

Warm pool water is
imported silk slipping
across my palm, between my
fingers, escaping,
breathlessly refined;
Or gentle linen,
pale against my brown-sugar skin,
cleaving to my frame
in hot midsummer winds
which blow away accountability.
The blueish water is no different
than the bed sheet which molds itself
to my weary muscles, welcoming,
as I crawl
through post-midnight darkness
into the embrace of my mattress,
after whittling hours away with a blade of nothing.
Warm water beckons me
like the amateur scientist’s familiar lab coat,
the only thing keeping him from making his living:
A place that seems infinitely comfortable.
Children splashing freckle my face
with little droplets: an evening veil,
a dinner party with one host who is also the guest.
I make small-talk with myself,
basking blissfully in the unimportance.
I play dress-up in a million ensembles,
hours on end,
as warm pool water rests weightless around me,
buoying up and away the responsibilities
which accompany deep thinking.
I submerge myself,
enjoying my game for too long.
Warm pool water easily drowns me.