The Beneath

Lesley Wheeler

The flat of the water whitens,
palming the last of the sun
on broken planes.
Her shadow leans first
and I shiver beneath the surface
with premonition of night;
the warmer shape following
stands in the beams,
a frizz of silver around the blackened face.

Her voice will drop 
through the thick clouds
of chlorine; always clear and small,
a marble pushing slowly
to the bottom of the pool.
Even as I wait for it,
my mother's announcement of dinner 
or storms, the day seems to tremble,
straining against its descent.

In the beneath perhaps
I am magnified, polished 
to a perfect summer brown.
Coiled I concentrate 
on desnity, wrapped arms
heavy on the brink
of becoming new limbs.
I break up to senset 
always, before miracles.