whirlpool

My first memory of dirt is the grit
on the slick plastic floor of Maw Maw’s 
above-ground pool. Too small 
to swim, I hold my breath and 

— sink crouch leap —
I break the blue meniscus 
to the smell of cut grass 
charcoal and Virginia Slims. 

I inch along the rail as the bigger kids 
swim and anyone tall enough 
to walk walks around the edge in 
the same direction we make

— a current a wave a churning swirl —
that pulls the pool toys and the paddling pets 
towards its center, belying the belief 
that there is safety in separation. 

In this moment there are no adults. 
None of us has a credit score. 
Nothing can be earned, nothing owned.
Our only obeisance is to one another. 

To be an adult is to be full of shit. 
To stop listening, to become cruel and petty, 
to stop helping. To be an adult 
is to evict your own heart.

Moms and uncles and cousins and even
Great Aunt Barbara, tight dyed-brown curls
under a swim cap, body nothing but belly
and ass, spindly legs sticking 

from her floral one-piece, marching across 
the floor of the pool, cigarette hand held high 
and to the left, laughing, yelling at her nephew 
to fix her a hot dog, barbecue chips and a Dr. Pepper.