Community Pool
The girl pictures other girls naked,
knows exactly what is underneath
the bathing suit
because she has it, too.
She knows in tenderness
there is no purification.
She imagines the nipple then holds
her head underwater. She imagines
what's between the legs
and sits on the pool floor.
She watches her friends
twirl, giggle, crash,
and sweep their bodies against each other
like fish she knows better than
to touch.
Sometimes she goes further,
inside, imagines
the pleasure, the womb,
the temperature, the tissue,
the blue-darkness,
and she’s heard about sex on TV,
she can picture the outside world, too,
all hot-breath, mouthing,
and hunger.
She floats. Her belly button
collects water, the longer
she lays there
the warmer it gets.
When the whistle sharpens
through the air, she opens
her eyes to a sudden greyness,
the clouds immense,
dangerous, on the verge.
She watches water drop
from between heavy women’s legs
as they stand by the pool, lifting
out their daughters. The catfish
opens its jaw and draws back
its eggs. The eyes
strike with bewilderment and routine.
A gust of wind parts leaves
and reveals the center of a tree,
like many broken limbs or
the transformed heart,
the branches, the veins,
the naked core.
knows exactly what is underneath
the bathing suit
because she has it, too.
She knows in tenderness
there is no purification.
She imagines the nipple then holds
her head underwater. She imagines
what's between the legs
and sits on the pool floor.
She watches her friends
twirl, giggle, crash,
and sweep their bodies against each other
like fish she knows better than
to touch.
Sometimes she goes further,
inside, imagines
the pleasure, the womb,
the temperature, the tissue,
the blue-darkness,
and she’s heard about sex on TV,
she can picture the outside world, too,
all hot-breath, mouthing,
and hunger.
She floats. Her belly button
collects water, the longer
she lays there
the warmer it gets.
When the whistle sharpens
through the air, she opens
her eyes to a sudden greyness,
the clouds immense,
dangerous, on the verge.
She watches water drop
from between heavy women’s legs
as they stand by the pool, lifting
out their daughters. The catfish
opens its jaw and draws back
its eggs. The eyes
strike with bewilderment and routine.
A gust of wind parts leaves
and reveals the center of a tree,
like many broken limbs or
the transformed heart,
the branches, the veins,
the naked core.
How Much
Why fear despair? I lived across the street from a girl
who once, after swimming, showed me her naked body.
Pink. As when we give each other snake bites, how the blood rushes
to the outermost layer of our forearms, then sinks.
Despair is precious, necessary. I knew
even as she turned my cheek up, gently,
looking into my eyes right before
making me take everything off.
Necessary, like animals who kill the runts of their litter,
who know just how much love demands. I remember how
the girl and I would play mommy and daddy together,
both of us naked, chlorine skunks,
armpits, stomachs, everything touched,
one of us saying sorry and the other how much?
who once, after swimming, showed me her naked body.
Pink. As when we give each other snake bites, how the blood rushes
to the outermost layer of our forearms, then sinks.
Despair is precious, necessary. I knew
even as she turned my cheek up, gently,
looking into my eyes right before
making me take everything off.
Necessary, like animals who kill the runts of their litter,
who know just how much love demands. I remember how
the girl and I would play mommy and daddy together,
both of us naked, chlorine skunks,
armpits, stomachs, everything touched,
one of us saying sorry and the other how much?
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Jenna Murray is a poet and educator based in New York City. Her poetry has appeared in Barrelhouse, Four Way Review, Poets.org, Zócalo Public Square, and elsewhere. She is the winner of the Catalina Páez & Seumas MacManus Award from The Academy of American Poets, the Collie Hoffman Prize, and the Thomas Hunter Fellowship from Hunter College, where she received her MFA.
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