She steps carefully
into the pool, dons her
mask and snorkel,

makes her way to her lane,
puts her head down and does
not lift it for 30 minutes,

as I, in the next lane, breast
stroke and scull headfirst,
then feetfirst, overarm it

into a crawl, then flip over for
some elementary backstroke—
strokes I once taught more

than 40 years ago in a pool
not unlike this one. If this
pool was a foot deeper,

I’d eggbeater half a lap
down the lane until
my old gal legs gave out,

then breast stroke the rest
of the lap. I still hold an
image of my younger self

doing a synchro team
workout—breath-holding,
eggbeatering, sculling—

before practicing stunts
that had us upside down,
noseclipped, legs in the air

as the sun disappeared behind
the fence that separated us
from the dry world.

Nowadays I’m happy
that I can propel myself
for 20 leisurely laps

as my friend slowly
frog-kicks and breathes
like a gently exhaling

sea creature in the lane
next door—both of us
far more buoyant

than we were in our
youth, water babies still
pulling and kicking,

if more gently, with
a different purpose,
which, come to think

of it, is why we kids
headed for the pool
with sun-bleached hair

and reddened noses: for
the joy of playing in water,
of swimming just to swim.

•••

for Mary Mackey