By Lorene 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.

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