It’s unlike what I imagined
would happen at the end
of winter in Ohio 

where the water is shallow
& frozen. The thin metal
of the beer cans posing in ice

near the shale towers
our children built during
the first faux-spring day

& inside Emily is yawning
with her phone in her hand,
beneath a blanket, in front

of the fire, looking up if we can
afford to join an indoor pool. That
chlorine would break the bars

off the season, but members
keep auctioning off their cards
at seven times the value

& this really pisses her off,
so she lays down to fall
asleep, to be suspect

in her dreams about anyone
with real money. She really fought
to get that gas log-set fixed up.

All it takes is one hair left near
the fireplace & I can swim
in Emily. I keep moving

so that I can find her in the places
that have lost action. It’s stark.
Those places groan

without her. They hold debris
like spring isn’t coming.
Their posture guards

against the good spasms
of she could return in a blink.
Emily in a swimsuit

moving her shoulders
in her favorite way. Rolling
through warm water

& hearing nothing
of the world. I think I’ll pay,
but not to those people.

She prefers the ocean anyway.
The salt clings to her
the same way that I do.

Darren C. Demaree is the author of sixteen poetry collections, most recently “a child walks in the dark”, (Harbor Editions, December 2021). He is the recipient of an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Award, the Louise Bogan Award from Trio House Press, and the Nancy Dew Taylor Award from Emrys Journal. He is the Editor-in-Chief of the Best of the Net Anthology and the Managing Editor of Ovenbird Poetry. He is currently living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.