The Pool

The Pool

The scorching heat of the day lies like black velvet on her skin
as she sits silently, crossed legged,
on the cracked, crazed sod of the orchard,
her slim silhouette dim under cover of two a.m. darkness.
The leaves of the trees hang limp,
not a breath of relief from
an errant breeze.

By the mean light of a scythe moon
she can grudgingly regard
the hunching, hulking bulk of the above-ground pool.
She had always longed for one,
had begged him for one.
She had always thought she would put one right there,
where that one was sitting now.
His answer was always,
"No, we don't have the money."
"No, we don't need one."
"No, it's too much work."

She can see the glassy surface of the water
lying open to the night, no covering, unprotected.
Rising, she strides across the seared night lawn,
moisture starved blades of grass shattering under foot,
crunching like broken glass with each step.
She comes to the edge of that pool,
that fat, water-glutted, squatting polypropylene pouch.
Her ring-less left hand grips
the rim of the pool
as her machete-wielding right raises heavenward,
then brings it down with all the force within her,
rending the soft plastic tissue.
Ruptured, the tepid water gushes over her body,
down her belly, over her knees, to pool at her feet momentarily.
The starved earth gulps the life giving release.
L.