Deep End

The bleach hit me, sharp, from the bottle's mouth,

and suddenly it was summer, in the south

of my head, a humid, echoing space.

The municipal pool, water in my face.

The blue-green tiles, rough beneath my toe,

at the shallow end, where the algae would grow.

Always cold at first, then sun-warmed skin,

the metallic taste, the loud, joyful din.

Before the shifts, before the quiet came,

just concrete, water, and the sun's hot flame.

And that clean, chemical sting in my nose,

a memory the present still bestows.