We could get away by ourselves when we turned twelve,
could necktie beach towels, corsage the octagonal badge, the
get-away made on flip-flops if we lived closed enough. Number
in the syrupy, small-town heat, the lack of big-city pursuits that
by itself made us motivational. To salt and chlorine we belonged,
ourselves to ourselves on the high dive, the only moment we thought to,
when wavy reflection was possible: too old to cannonball? All
we had to factor in then was the whistle for “Adult Swim.” Beginnings
turned sour soon enough for sun-stained skin. Who didn’t like
twelve, the number that belonged to all beginnings like pretend?
