Sitting at the edge of heavenly waters,
breathing in the lukewarm whisper
between downpours, sipping at the luscious calm
of a condo pool jilted for the summer.
Swinging my legs slow as steampunk claws
mining blue wavelets for meaning, for oxygen.
Dusty goggles dangling in pale hand,
yearning to crest these ripples once again.
A starling streaks across as I stretch
shoulder and back muscles I can’t name.
The chill infuses knees and seeps up torso
in this eternity of not entering the water.
Strapping on my powered lenses – infinity
collapses into myopic clarity, pewter sky
dissipates into dusk’s ambers; still I see
only the bed of mosaic azure below.
Lowering myself an inch into molten frost,
then another; hydraulic arms taut
with the terror of letting go, of plunging away.
Eyes scrunched against the embrace
of icy tendrils, chest thudding
as toes touch down on sandy tiles.
En pointe across the pool,
leaving my phone behind.
Ears twitching,
heart praying for silence.
Ping Yi writes poetry, short fiction and creative nonfiction, after a three-decade detour in public service. His work is in Orbis (nominated for Forward Prize), The High Window, The Lake, La Piccioletta Barca, Eclectica, Poetry Ink, Sheila-Na-Gig, Vita Poetica, and Artemis Journal. Ping Yi lives in Singapore with his spouse and their son.