Today, you are simply asked to write a poem that states the things you know to be true.
Bonus: Reference Donald Trump without calling him a name.
The basin is not the balm is not the
bath is not the meal not even the poem,
only the midpoint of two large swimming
pools: one, you, the second, still you
but with a blue Vespa that takes thirty-seven
seconds longer to find parking. The forest
split by a fence, across which there you are
in your one-piece, drowning.
That pinging sound through your cranium.
The meagre song sung at the funeral as the
pinging kept beat. I know you would not have
wanted this. The basin is where I taught you
to swim before you flew and fell, the likeness
of Icarus, only human. Twelve minutes and
forty-three seconds. The forest missing, and the
appearance of a child, you, dribbling and murmuring.
We danced to an old voice that warbled through
your child belly, crooning heavily the names
of all your lovers. Your body takes twenty-eight
seconds to resurface. It is pale and crackling
with the sound of a fire. This will upset you,
but this is the Vespa, chuttling through the streets,
finding your poem. Me on the Vespa, then me
flying off on impact, disappearing into the sea.