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The Pool

Naomi Dean
Mix Tape • Poetry

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.