Our shade of plain is coffee-ground
brown. Dirt surrounds my childhood like
air, both pregnant with corn come August.
You know it’s the ‘80s cause I’m at the end
of the high dive like that’s normal, surveying
the blue: topaz on top, sky deep down.
Icees frozen in neon lime, suckers
like bobbers, faded yellow & pink,
reward us for weeds pulled, rocks picked.
The pantheon of lifeguards keeps tabs,
Banana Boat haze drifting down to mingle
with band-aids & chlorine, mildew & promise.
I’m sinking into liquid, bits of the field
coming off my ankles & elbows, the water
taking away the dirt, and the ordinary.