(PROSE POEM)
AMONG SWIMMERS
DANIEL HOLMES
AMONG SWIMMERS
DANIEL HOLMES
You smiled at me. “A quick dip, that’s all.” We stripped to our underwear, started in, our feet tenderized by hidden stones. The water was so cold I could not enter it breathing. Goose bumps appeared on your back and arms. You hugged yourself for warmth. The sun came through the trees. Breeze poured over us. You dove first.
I followed, leapt into mountain water, opened my eyes below. Decaying matter danced in the light, rocks glowed beyond. Trout arrived, slipped away. Your hair floated wide, curling. You were looking right at me. (Remembering, I hear your name as two lush breaths.)
My hand released the car key. The engine was running. Our wet clothes were heaped at your feet, and when you pulled the door closed I knew that—the way things were going—you would not ask to stop here again.
I followed, leapt into mountain water, opened my eyes below. Decaying matter danced in the light, rocks glowed beyond. Trout arrived, slipped away. Your hair floated wide, curling. You were looking right at me. (Remembering, I hear your name as two lush breaths.)
My hand released the car key. The engine was running. Our wet clothes were heaped at your feet, and when you pulled the door closed I knew that—the way things were going—you would not ask to stop here again.
Daniel Holmes lives in Atlanta and teaches at Georgia State University. His recent fiction and poetry have appeared in The Carolina Quarterly, Digital Americana, and Anthropocene, and he was awarded a Hambidge fellowship in August of 2019.
