Dead Man’s Float

by Lori Lamothe

Saturday at the city pool,
bikinis splattered across blue canvas,
Jackson Pollock
of cellulite and translucence.

I tell her to trust the water.
I tell her to do it right
She’s got to push a knife into fear,
slice an opening in invisible.

Eyes closed against sky
arms out, head down
the line where blue meets blue
blurred to light on skin.

A group of boys shouts
graffitti against the rules.
She inhales a mouthful.
Language burns a tattoo
onto nothing’s right shoulder.




Lorene Lamothe lives in Massachusetts with her seven-year-old daughter. She has published poems in Blackbird, MiPOesias, Passages North, Seattle Review, and other magazines. Her chapbook, Camera Obscura, is available from Finishing Line Press.