Under the umbrella by the pool are two quilted
like the rollers in factories used
to move small items to the next station.
If you run your hand over them
you will feel symmetry of each roll
until you don’t.
Their slope is inviting as one
can see it’s the shape of a body
waiting to be lifted upward by a parent
or a lover.
The sun warms the chaises between
eleven and two thirty.
They are always perfectly empty,
undulating and perfectly positioned
for the body that never comes.
The woman swims
moving her legs and arms in
time with her urgent need.
She watches the two chaise lounges
admires them, their perfect curves,
their arc, a painter’s swish, a Japanese
letter, an apostrophe to the