Death Box
His backyard held the only pool we knew
its deep end moulded like a pelican’s beak—
so gentle was the roll-in that you flew
straight up the vert wall. At first you felt sick
at all that loss of gravity, but then
the feeling stuck, grew stronger every time
your nose approached the depth-marker—10
ft. You’d gulp a mouthful of air and climb
just higher than your comfort zone allowed
body compressed as fingers kissed blue tile’s
virgin promise—and friends don’t need to goad
you on at that point. Trial by trial
it’s waited you out; now you see it for
the first time, as it slams you to the floor.
Marc Alan Di Martino is a Pushcart-nominated poet and author of the collection Unburial (Kelsay Books, 2019). His work appears in Rattle, Baltimore Review, Palette Poetry, Rivet and many other journals and anthologies. His second collection, Still Life with City, is forthcoming from Pski's Porch in 2020. He lives in Italy.
Other Works
Iotas
by A. Martine
... but it never comes close to when I was this high, and I could barely reach the tabletops, inhaling the ample heat of the West African monsoon ...
Cherry Wood’s House Husband
by Matt Dube
... He turned to look at her when she stood in the doorway, and she noticed the new blossoms, a ridge of tiny soft petals over his eyebrow ...