by Devon Neal
There is something about skimming the pool
as the sun softens on a summer evening.
Blades of grass, snippets of leaves
spiral on the surface as the pump hums.
The jet makes a twinkling sound as it stirs
the clean, sparkling water. Sometimes,
a beetle the size of a toenail, or a winged
asterisk, soaked and heavy, catches
on my net, and it jitters back to life
on the pool’s rim; other times, the backswimmers,
like black arrowheads, dive away.
When the dirt, carried in by bare feet,
collects on the bottom, I stir it up
with the net, a gust of underwater wind,
then catch it with a quick scoop.
This used to be a dreaded chore,
standing in the itchy grass, the humid
evening, sweat pasting my shirt. Now,
I wish I could take the skimmer inside,
sift your wind-dappled surface,
dredge the debris from your smooth seabed,
scoop out those things cluttering up
your mind, your body, shake them out
in the summer wind. I’d do whatever
work in whatever weather, just to
get you sparkling again.
Devon Neal (he/him) is a Kentucky-based poet whose work has appeared in many publications, including HAD, Stanchion, Stone Circle Review, Livina Press, and The Storms, and has been nominated for Best of the Net. He currently lives in Bardstown, KY with his wife and three children.
