a literary arts journal
Goggles
Emily Stout
​
At the end of June,
They fill the public pool
With water the color of a rock-candy ring.
They turn on the fountain where all the kids run
And make new friends out of nothing.
Will you be my friend? One shouts while the water shoots
Well above their heads. The other girl nods
And grabs her hand.
Some answers don’t have to be shouted
To be understood. I guess I’m too old now
To do that sort of thing, to just grab a hand.
Instead, I will swim my laps and sit my hair cap
and goggles on the side along with another
swimmer’s. We will not look too obviously
At each other's latex-clad bodies as we move
From one end to the other.
We will not laugh at the way one wet strand of hair
clings like a mustache to her face.
In the locker room, I will not look at the women who are so
freely naked or examine all the different tools
and creams we use to get ourselves ready again.
I will not come back at the same time tomorrow,
Hoping for the same swimmer in the next lane.
~~~
Emily Stout is a poet from Washington State. She received her MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and currently teaches writing in New York. You can find her work in Atticus Review, Pigeonholes, Peat Smoke Journal, and others.