Of the Macho

Mi hermano says he can’t change flat tires on his bicycle

anymore. His wrists too weak, can’t leverage the tire’s bead over

the rim. In high school he was the State all-around gymnastics

champion. His body flying over bars and mats.

A no ignition Johnny Blaze.

Now he places a white plastic lawn chair

in his shower. Safer, if you sit.

One summer afternoon when we were unchecked

college students, our lifeguard friend unlocked

the diving bay at the local public pool for

our romanticized athletic desires.

We bounced on the high dive, happy after some beers,

sending each other into the atmosphere.

Admiring our splashes

that exploded over the wall. Our friend

shaking her head,

our horsing around a real danger,

she claimed. And maybe,

because we both wanted to kiss her, we dared

each other in a contest of the macho. Who could

leap off the high dive board and come

closest the pool’s edge on the opposite side.

The entire pool in the shade of the early evening now, and

he launched first. His entire body embracing

the wilderness moment. A leap of redemption,

of joy, of middle-class boredom,

because they never let you howl. He landed like a perfect

arrow, un clavo, en punto, feet first, a daring splash two feet

from the edge. I swam over to him, and told him he was

crazy. He was the winner. No question, no contest.

I climbed out and watched him

glide through the water to the other wall.

He pulled his body out of the pool, the water

released him to the air. A wind of calm rushing over

the surface. The water returning to glass.

First published in Gigantic Sequins, June 2020.