I swim laps
like I’m escaping a city of smoke
then turning back.

I am regaining shape, training to race
towards ruin.
I am pleased with how long I can go
without breathing now,
how my stroke has improved.

Families eat ice cream in the brilliant sun,
chlorine and rubber, suntan lotion melting
its scent of greasy coconut.
Girls play a game, close your eyes.
A young father ushers three quick, tan children.
For hours laughter trills,
new voices starting up when it dies down.

All I do is swim inside these words,
swim through these worlds
I pretend I can afford membership to.

I’m not afraid anymore
of running into you.
Do you know how many times
in my life I’ve tried to lose
a face across the room?

I’ve been racing so long I can’t help it.
Can’t wash the sting of chlorine off my skin.
The younger women at the party side eye me
instinctively like we’re lined up on diving boards.

But I’m a girl’s girl now; I’ll show you my routine,
how I keep my skin fresh and my heart ancient.
I’m not fake it’s just me I’m just never the same
person twice, I don’t lie I just change,
reset each time my fingers hit the wall.

The elders float by, serene
on foam kickboards, skirted suits billowing.
When they smile their kindness at me
I want to plead,
wait, let me ask something.

You can fill your lungs
with questions like these: are the tropical fish
in the sparkling clean
glass tank bored, and is boredom
worse than the worst danger?

And does the castle help,
the plastic algae waving, psychedelic pink
coral, will it cure them
of this listlessness?

Emily Banks is the author of Mother Water (Lynx House Press, 2020). Her poems have appeared in New Ohio Review, Plume, Copper Nickel, 32 Poems, CutBank, Mid-American Review, and other journals. She holds an MFA from the University of Maryland and a Ph.D. from Emory University. She lives in Indianapolis and teaches at Franklin College.

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