The Swimmer


Brown hair stuffed in a cap
strapped under my chin, I swam
through junior high summers
at the Reseda Park pool,
in water heavy with chlorine.
All summer I smelled
like the sink
Mother sprinkled with Comet
before leaving for work.

Maxine’s mom was a dry cleaner.
Days off, she cadged
invitations to swim
in backyard pools of the rich
whose clothes she pressed,
steamed in her shop.
Mother said she was nervy
just like Maxine. Like Maxine,
her hair was curly, dark.

Days after swimming,
we dipped crackers
in mustard, Worcestershire,
any liquid found in their kitchen
went into our sauce,
an extra-strength potion.
We dipped, ate, were transformed
into amazing girls:
scientists, swimmers.

At school in September:
Whose tan is darkest? 
Which camp is better,
Malibu, Pine Flats?
I longed to be one of them
a Valerie or Susan,
whose long blonde hair
turned green every summer.​