Low-end bleach

The steam in here is thick with bleach.

It clings to the hair on my arms, a sharp,

invisible coat that won't wash off.

A kid walks past, his eyes two raw circles

of stinging red, clutching a yellow ring.

I remember the taste of that water—

a cold, metallic punch to the throat

near the deep end, where the concrete

cracked and bit at my heels.

The blue tiles were filmed with a white crust,

a salt that didn't come from the sea,

just a bucket of powder dumped at dawn

to keep the summer from turning green.