New poetry by Wellington writer Carolyn DeCarlo.

 

Winter Swimmers

 

We are not

swimming pools,

 

our faces

never submerged in water

long enough to breathe,

 

never dipped

below the surface,

eyes absorbing the

chlorine and urea

flushing milky pink.

 

We do not

share the sunblock,

 

our fingers

wet and greasy

against each other’s backs,

 

never slipping

out of hands

and towels and lycra

to perform our skin

against the density

of 1,000.00 kg/m^3.

 

We do not

scrape the balls of our feet

against the concrete

 

playing spider

in the corners,

 

nor do our toes

gather grains of sand

to be sucked out later

in the bathroom

by hungry lifeguards.

 

We are in pieces,

not limited by bodies

of water and skin,

 

we turn ourselves

inside, we float up

like plastic bags

on the sea,

rising to form clouds.

 

Carolyn DeCarlo, 2019