Saturation

The laundry room smells of a deep end.

I found the goggles in a plastic tub,

the rubber strap melted into a black knot,

sticky as a secret kept too long.

I remember the sting of the water,

the way the world went wobbly and blue,

and how the skin on my fingers

turned into a map of ridges and valleys.

I stayed under until my lungs burned,

watching the shadows of legs kick past.

I look in the glass of the dryer now—

my eyes are still red, and the water is gone.