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Magma MAG
Stepping through the old wooden doors
I know I’ll see the blue tile floor
that’s always wet with pool water
melting off the swimsuits
that cling to warm bodies,
and the table that always has a leftover piece
of popcorn charred and stuck in one of the many holes,
and the chemical scent of chlorine
burning my sinuses.
The old rescue tubes
have mutated to a bloody red color
and the air is suffocatingly thick
out on the deck, drowning me
until I slip under the water
before my shift in the boil of the sun.
I had a nightmare last night
about pale hands
flailing above the molten discharge of a volcano
and underwater voices
begging for help, screaming in pain.
I trace my whistle,
smiling at the blonde baby
swallowed by a sun hat, and the couple
who think they’re invisible in the corner,
and the father
with kids clinging to his every limb.
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This was inspired by my summers working as a lifeguard and a recent nightmare I had.