We Reigned Over Summer

As a kid, I understood water.
Dive in head-first, water seems hollow.
Feet-first, it’s a brick wall. Sometimes

I’d pretend to be a boat, capsized.
Or an iceberg. Frozen. Stiff. Floating
like a Pooh stick. Then I’d wade out
of the shallows, imagine every stone

left dry and parched, fish flapping —
all that water held in my nose and
ears, and plaid swimming shorts.

On hot days, my ears could drink-up
a whole ocean view. Just a scattered
wind, and a whip of cloud remained.

And come late September, I’d still be
diving off the dock while the adults
drank gin and tonics on the veranda,
watching us kids with half an eye.