October, Deep End

October is open till six.
Come down. Mind the glass.
Rain follows us in on our heels.
The bass gets into the fillings.

~

I check my funeral coat.
Third funeral this year.
Same coat.
The girl gives me a number
I must not lose.

~

This was the municipal pool.
I learnt to float here,
my mother’s palm beneath my back.

~

Every spring my swimsuit cut deeper
at the shoulders.
Another tooth came through.
I picked my knees open
and grew them shut again.
Once I stole money from her purse
and let her apologise for losing it.

~

They drained the pool.
Put speakers where the lifeguard sat.

~

Summer, we danced barefoot
over the little blue squares.
Your dress rode up. I pulled it down.
Later I pulled it up.
We laughed so hard against the changing-room wall
the attendant came to check.

~

Outside, the sun hurt.
We kissed with our eyes screwed shut,
missing each other’s mouths.

~

You wore that dress home to someone else.
I still know where its zip catches.

~

Tonight you introduce me
as an old friend.

~

While we wait for vodka,
the barmaid labels a bottle
of her milk.
A baby’s name. Today’s date.
She finds it room between the mixers.

~

I want my fucking drink.

~

Your girlfriend turns towards the music.
Your hand slides beneath my ribs.
I lift my arm to make room.

~

Above us, NO RUNNING
shows through the black paint.
My mother used to wait there with a towel,
furious at how long I took.

~

The boiler has been disconnected.
Our backs steam.
Someone feeds a paper flyer
into the candle on our table.

~

In September, a glass rolled across the floor.
We blamed the bass.

~

Now the shallow end lifts behind us.

~

I take a step uphill.
My foot returns.
I try with the other.

~

You pull me into a turn
before anyone notices.

~

October.

~

The ladder has gone.
I hook my fingers into its empty sockets.
Rust packs beneath my nails.
For a moment I have a handful
of something that held.

~

Then you have to take my weight.

~

Through the roof’s missing panes
the sun rubs at our shoulders.
Your black dress powders at the seams.
I brush it from your breast
and take some skin with it.

~

You look down.
I am still brushing.

~

All round us, dancers reach
for other dancers.
The small adjustments travel through the room.
A wrist. A waist.
Someone’s nails in someone’s arm.

~

We are beautiful from the doorway.
The light gets through more of us now.

~

Below the last working lamp,
November will gather the cups,
the leaves, the things we step out of.

~

Farther down, winter.
The white tiles.
The drain.

~

I can see a hair stretched across it.

~

Your hand tightens at my back.
I put my mouth to yours.
Your eyes stay open,
looking past my shoulder
for something to hold.

.