[response to “Terminal things”]
“There,” he says. He picks at a curl of hard callus, pinching and flicking out. “It’s a flying Deuteronomy.”
We are not sitting and digging into a pool. It’s a granite mess at the
bottom, chipped away and ground. White dust in his fingernail but I have a
gauge, ease along the edges of the U. Putting the junk in a smear on a jean.
Is there a reason he was itching along the floor then, something to do with
concentration, or leftover grease and a pansy rag? His hair is matting.
One second we’re sitting without water and the next we’re under it, a pool
first empty and then brimmed, us suspended. When it’s gone we’re pasty with
the residue and eating liquid chalk on our mouths. My lips pretty smooth as
lips go, his like gnawed cobs. White gunk in the mottled bits.
I try to ease along in lines painted once a blue, these lanes for swimmers
all cap and legs. But fast he picks away. Getting closer and closer to a
“There,” he says, and I’m peeling from the floor all over again.