Life Guarding

My sister tells me to turn up whatever it is I’m listening to
because mom is sobbing in her bedroom with the door half open
and we’re in the kitchen trying to fix our dinners. I fight
with my father the next morning about it; I curse,

slam doors. He comes down from his home office,
slices a cantaloupe for me. At the pool I open one umbrella,
fumble with locks. I don’t water the plants; it’s been raining.

I drop little white pills into test tubes, crouch and wonder
if I could reassemble my mother, if the day could loosen
its grip. I sift a dead bird out of the bright water with a net.
I chase the opened umbrella as it lifts, tumbles through the air.








originally appeared in Salt Hill