by Joy Roulier Sawyer

Cup your hands like this, I said,
and when your arm comes out of the pool,
just roll your head to the side for air

She giggled, slurped water, puffed her
chipmunk cheeks and squirted me
through gaps in her teeth

Later, we climbed out and dangled our feet,
her baby fat pooched over her swimsuit
like white-flour dumplings

Then we heard two pool workers picking up Coke cans behind us

They bought another Rolls Royce yesterday.
Makes me sick

Wonder how many little old ladies
paid for that

They laughed like the shrill whine of the pool’s vacuum

I turned and looked Tammy Faye's daughter straight in the eye,
but she'd disappeared—

gone scuba diving in Maui,

enough oxygen strapped to her back
so she'd never have to surface
again.

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Joy Roulier Sawyer is the author of Lifeguards (Conundrum Press) and Tongues of Men and Angels (White Violet Press). Her poetry has appeared in LIGHT, Lilliput Review, New York Quarterly, St. Petersburg Review and many others. Joy teaches at Lighthouse Writers Workshop in Denver, where she also facilitates the Hard Times workshops for people experiencing homelessness, poverty, and other difficult life issues. She also leads the Writing to Be Free workshops for women transitioning out of incarceration. She is the recipient of both the National Association for Poetry Therapy’s Distinguished Service Award, as well as the 2019 Lighthouse Beacon Award for Teaching Excellence.