At eight, you almost drowned in a classmate’s pool.
It was simple, almost appealing,
that slow, thoughtless sinking
into unerotic water.
You were cold.

Somehow you only remember the details:
Laughter from the shallow end.
A dead bee turning idly in your wake.
A few leaves on the surface,
as though to say that nothing,
not even summer,
lasts forever.

When you got out,
you sat at the edge, gasping,
and no one came over to see what was wrong,
and nobody asked how you were.
You just stared at your legs in the water,
trying to catch the moment
the light made them disappear
and wondering whose fault this was and why.