The slats of blinds on his bedroom window sag, and so much sun comes
through, you think the room is made of light. You think of rising, of
yeast and paper kites that you glued together with balsa wood. Heat,
centers of biscuits, the lake so many summers ago when wasps swung from
the boat motor as your dad gave the cord a good yank. Then rising again,
on one water ski for the first time, water parting into soft white lilies.
You wobbled and fell and the boat came back.There's no hands in your
face to break through the water. So you go close to diving, then arch
up again. Topless, wasting your breasts with the sunburn, you make love
one night, sloughing skin off like snow. He gave you three lilies, rolled
into vertigo—light widens around him and summer drops out. You
go closer than that: putting a dent in his chest. You tip like a bathtub,
arms floating like oars. No one is speaking, but the sound is the same.
Treading water long after the others have left: Mom’s on the dock
with her gaudy pink hat and dad's clapping at a halos of bees.