Swimming Pool by Rae Iolene

Swimming Pool

I’m pulling roots from the base

pinching my little fingers together 

over and over. 

The Iowa heat presses down,

bleached curls fly into my eyes.

I smack my face, feeling a 

smudge of dirt trace an eyebrow. 

It’s almost July and

Dad’s garden prospers, 

sweltering in illusions 

collecting each drop of my 

sweat into the dry soil like 

some tithe to the gods.

Weed the garden and

we'll go swimming, he says.

Cool off after a hard day’s work.

I can already feel my 

feet in the deep end, 

licking a double scoop of 

Rocky Road Ice cream,

shivering as water splashes

against my face. But,

Dad will be almost home and

half the garden is undone,

a pathway of lettuce and broccoli.

I glance over, my brother crab 

walks to the end, building small 

even mounds—burrying them alive. 

And yet, this is what I contemplate,

as I watch them walk to the old Suburban,

knowing I did my work through quiet 

strength, while they wear swim trunks

and joke about gingers. Ironic,

as my brother’s hair reflects the sun—

a spitting image. I imagine them now.

Mint ice cream in hand, 

laughing at mundane things. 

I watch them drive away, 

wishing I had finished in time. 

I think about the small mounds, 

knowing they’ll be back.

Earthside. Staring up at me. 

xx. Rae Iolene

2 April 2026