On Finding My Mother’s Old Blueprints for a Pool We Never Built

Fingers to stenciled, yellowed

edge, I trace where water would’ve once

kissed concrete. I trace

where my feet would’ve dangled

above a wavy mirror

reflecting the things we didn’t have,

couldn’t afford, where

light blue would’ve tickled

light brown. I smudge

where I would’ve shot my friends

with a Super Soaker,

where I would’ve held my breath

the longest, where

bright ballons from my birthday party

would’ve hovered

over my presents, as if shade

could protect gifts

from little hands. I finger where

my mother would’ve let

the sun turn her peach to olive,

where my sister would’ve

also ripened in color, where

I would’ve swallowed too much water,

choked on the chlorine

while my mother would’ve jumped

in lifeguard-style, quickly

fished me out. I touch where

I’d have reluctantly fished

for leaves and bugs, leaf skimmer

for pole, my catch the things

no one would want, not even

the three of us. And I resist

the temptation to crumple the bond

paper, hands no longer little

but wistful still, instead

dampen the places where

water never ran, thanks

to fluid that cleans as much

as leaks, which I,

in vain, try to blink away.