Shallow End

Somewhere in the second lap

my arms stopped negotiating.

They just pulled water.

The lane rope bobbed beside me

like it had nothing to prove.

I wasn't thinking about the apartment,

the weeks of flat gray light,

the dishes I'd been moving

from one side of the sink to the other

like that counted as something.

I was just—moving.

The water cold against my ears,

warmer at my chest

each time I broke the surface.

When I touched the wall and stood,

the weight came back into my legs

the way it does when you've been sitting

for a very long time on a plane

and you finally stand,

and your body goes: oh, right.

That.

I put my feet on the rubber mat,

gritty, chemical, other people's

morning footprints dried into it,

and just stood there.

Water sheeting off my arms.

The smell of chlorine

doing its honest, unpoetic work.

I didn't think: I'm back.

I thought: there's the drain.

There's the kickboard rack.

There's my towel on the hook,

right where I left it.