Underwater

I lasted a week at the first foster home.
There I learned to only inhale, because
a completed breath brought the unknown —
days to come were milk poured into water,
cloudy and without taste, I was underwater.

The second home taught me to hold my breath —
the blue backyard plastic pool, where in June,
my bully foster brothers played octopus.
Binding arms and legs while pushing
my head under water.

Number three included parents who never
left the couch or TV — obesity, cockroaches,
and a baby boy with soiled diapers.
No AC and the thick August air
felt like breathing underwater.

Even a crazy Mom beats this, so I returned
home for a year, then at 17 moved out.
Mom left LA for Tecate, Mexico, and died
eight months later, when her car vaulted
an embankment and ended up underwater.

Gary D. Grossman

Medusa’s Kitchen 6–2–24