I remember when you found your mother, said your uncle.
You close your eyes,

smell chlorine. See the backyard’s cedars,
bougainvillea shadow her swollen body.

She bobs, arms mottled, face down.
Her nightgown twists – white lace winds her body.

There is no note.
Nobody, you say, can know.
Accident as likely.

Still you hear her say,
Come sit with me, always sad.
I’m busy, your reply, bent over homework.

You didn’t find her, said your father.
You never saw her body.

Light and shadow cross the pool.
Sting of chlorine.

Eyelet curtains drift in wind.
She turns slowly.

Wendy Scott
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