after Margaret Atwood
I can swim faster and further under–
water than any of the other kids
but no-one says so. My parents aren’t here.
The other parents smile and nod
at their own kids as if they were the best.
I think them obstinate, hold my breath
for ages and surface in the distance.
No-one waves. They wave to their own kids
splashing in the shallow end.
I forget about them and climb
the ladder to the high diving board.
I hate diving. I can’t remember
my parent’s faces. The board bends.