At the city pool, I wait for my brother
to get us a Klondike bar we have to
share, both of us finding loose change
in the diving pool but not enough
for two. This girl in a red bikini
and the attitude of a dive bomber
sits next to me in the grass and tells me
I’m peeling, would I like her to take off
the dead skin, she does it for her sister
all the time, how she tore a piece off her
shaped like Africa, and although mine
might not be a continent, it might be
the right shape for Italy, at least Spain.
Before I can say anything, I feel her
sharp nails picking at my shoulder,
a leaf of me separating from my back
like I’ve seen the bark of a sycamore
shedding. My back arches forward
making the release easy as parting lips
and she holds the country in her palm
but never tells me which, her sister
grabbing her by the hand, the two
jumping into the pool, my skin flake
falling into the grass, the breeze
passing it on blade-by-blade,
my brother back with the Klondike
half-eaten or more, the shape
of New Hampshire, how I tell him
to finish it as my back begins to burn
for the feel of her arm hair
grazing my shoulder.

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Image: “Orange You Glad” by Alex J. Tunney