Early June, cumulus clouds building
in a mountain sky, the lake filled
with kids, their shining, half-naked
bodies shaped by my prescriptions—
the scarecrow thin, chicken ribbed
kids on Ritalin, boys with Zyprexa
bellies and pendulous breasts,
the robot-walkers on Thorazine.
And I stand in the shadows,
almost invisible, remembering
all the tests I have passed,
how much water I swallowed
when I was twelve and swam
in triumph across a mountain lake.
But today I am drowning in doubt,
looking hard at what I have done
to the growing days of summer.