There is pool light

and the woman
in the violet two-piece
smoking Reds underwater.

An hour ago,
she reminded herself

that every chance she gets
to start her body over

she will take
without question
and live that skin through
until February.

At the bar
she will kiss the man
who calls her Holy
as he pours tongue
into her ballroom mouth.

Mistake for Holly,
let it go—

dream of killing him
in the morning
but loving him
a little at first­.

It’s only chlorine,
the crush late at night.
teased with hairspray.
The soft veins
that make it
a year’s resolution to save her.

At breakfast,
something plastic
floats in the pool;
too faint,
too new and straight
to be her.

Tyler Kline balances his time between working on an organic vegetable farm and studying English at The University of Delaware. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Saint Katherine Review, Rust + Moth, and San Pedro River Review.