Eight Feet Deep

The pine-scented cleaner hits the tile

and the air turns sharp and blue.

It is the YMCA in August,

the smell of the drain and the wet cement,

a heavy, chemical curtain

pressing against my ribs.

I remember the way the skin on my shins

would turn to white powder,

a chalky residue of the deep end.

We stayed until our eyes were red,

tasting the bleach in our sandwiches,

holding the cold in our hair.