Held Breath

I was in the bleachers with a cup

of something that had gone lukewarm,

watching the lesson run toward its end.

The others hauled themselves out of the water.

One girl kept going back down.

Not struggling. Choosing it.

She'd settle cross-legged on the drain

at the deep end—

hair floating upward,

which is what hair does

when the rest of you

goes still.

The coach stood at the edge and counted.

Twelve seconds before she said the name.

The girl surfaced, nodded, went back under.

The second time ran longer.

I drove home with the heater going.

I keep thinking about the willingness—

the drain's dark circle under her,

the hair going up while she sat still,

how the surface was the thing

she was in no hurry to return to.

The coach called. She came up.

She went back down.