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.