The teenage lifeguard called in sick. My parents
were busy eating their clam cakes on a bench.
When I sank to the pool’s bottom, no one
noticed. My little sister splashed on the concrete step
and thereafter became an only child. I overshadowed
her, giving her nightmares. My parents
never forgave themselves, even though
they had both warned a bratty me to stay
in the shallow end. I became their angel,
visited their dreams with my tiny wings.
I never went through puberty, never grew up
to write my first sonnet commemorating
my near-death, never made it to my sixties
so I could write this poem. My poor living sister,
the rule follower, now alone, would have
given anything to see me dragged out,
given mouth-to-mouth, then grounded—
no bike, no TV—for the rest of the month.

I always get the House and Senate mixed up. I still can’t
convert Fahrenheit to Celsius. I read Fahrenheit 451 
so long ago I barely remember the plot even when 
I reference it. I didn’t spell Celsius 
correctly when I started this poem in my notebook.
Sometimes I try to figure out who you are
talking about by context—a famous writer,
musician, politician? Then, when I have enough
info to get by, I nod, before changing the subject 
to something I’m familiar with, America
and the Dunning-Kruger Effect.