Mark Parsons 

Chlorine

My sister’s vagina
Comes alive
Underwater,
In the shallow end
Of our swimming pool.
The water’s not cloudy.
I can see everything
Push out between the ‘v’
Of Dad’s fingers:
The snub
Beak of clitoris
Unhooded
At the apex of yawning pink
Set in rubbery outer lips.
Dad’s on the second step, my sister on his lap.
I’m wearing my new swim-mask.
His other hand is spread out like a starfish on my head.
My sister’s legs
Outside my father’s legs,
The strip of turquoise and white swimsuit
Bunched and pulled aside
Grooves her skin where hip meets thigh.
I’ve got a snorkel
That came with the mask,
But I forget to breathe.
I kick and try to swim away,
But Dad clamps down on the back of my neck.
I’m counting hairs on his middle finger
When a speck of air
Clinging to one crinkly inner lip detaches
And zigzags to the surface.
His fingernails
Are squarish, long, and thick.
I’m wondering why he doesn’t cut them,
And why
His fingers don’t appear orange,
Like he’s been eating cheese puffs from a can,
When he begins to stroke.
I’m worried his fingernail will tear
My sister’s delicate-looking skin.
The tip of his finger inside,
My sister’s feet
Arch on the bottom step
As she rotates her hips.
I can’t tell if his finger making circles
Makes her hips
Move in circles, or vice versa.
His finger slips
Almost out, back in.
I’m breathing
Hard and biting down
Hard on the molded rubber projections
Of the snorkel’s mouthpiece.
I taste blood where the flange scrapes my gums.