The Pool
In the joke with the bowl of water
you sprinkle salt and pepper
to represent children.
In the bowl, the children swim
together, mixing like spices
in a nourishing soup
which is the only thing
that belongs in the bowl
and we feel hungry, don’t we?
So far this seems silly or surreal —
a fable, a metaphor, something made
up, dinner with children,
their skin figured like seasoning,
how to make something delicious.
In a story from childhood,
someone performs it for me step by step:
First you fill a bowl. And now you
dump the salt, and now the pepper,
and look, they’re swimming together!
Such fun! But here comes
the Mexican or the Pollack
or the Jew, which is dish soap
on the tip of a finger, touching
the surface tension of the pool
water, so careful and clean.
Ha ha. We watch the children flee
each other, scatter to the sides
and out of the pool as if sizzled
by lightning or drowning
with cramps from swimming
too soon after lunch. Cool!
I’ve got the bowl out now —
teaching this joke
to my own children,
a demonstration of how clever
and hilarious disgust can be.
Ha ha.
Yesterday a black man died
slowly from a white cop’s gun
while his girlfriend filmed
his story, her proof while
her small child watched
and surely learned. All of this,
expository and literal. Thirty
years have passed and
I make them touch the surface, and
I touch the surface and
I watch their faces and
this is no joke and
I’m not laughing
anymore.
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