Dead Man's Float

I hang at a right angle, press
my face into the sting of chlorine.

I keep my eyes open, think that if
I wait long enough, I could
breathe underwater without dying,
could arch over, spin down

to the grated bottom and sit there,
watch twenty legs kick up the light above.

           Swimming
was like my brother's sign language --

slow movements caught in the barrier
of sound. Waving a hand below
the surface takes effort, just as figuring
out which fingers to bend into I love you

must have been for him. In water,
you guide yourself along by touch,

by memorizing how many feet

until the ladder rescues you, where
the shallow end breaks off.

For my brother and me, speech was
this routine of remembering --

that a closed fist rubbed over his
heart meant I'm sorry, that grasping

the bill of an imaginary cap meant brother,
that to him, I was an A against his shoulder.

At the Y, I float alone, watch
my legs suspend in the white light.

         Underwater,
I say, I can still hear you.

The pool rushes into my throat.

-- Amanda Auchter