A Swimming Pool in East Atlanta by Bonnie Hall

Writing

Jul 21

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What thoughts I have of you tonight, Violet Chachki, pacing the chain link fence, fingers tracing each tangent vine crawling from the ground. Each tendrel, a lock of hair framing the vacant disregard of my coy nature.
     Thirsty and stumbling, and in a fit of my self, I check into the bright swimming pool, with you in my walk.
      Each light, each glow from the city (just due west) find the white caps of a sea of eyes splashing here. Young boys climbing atop their older brothers’ backs to see who will come from the dressing room next.
      Mothers fanning their cigarette smoke away from the tide. And who is that, upon the lifeguard's perch, counting the pulse of our light?

      I saw you, Violet Chachki, radiant doe, poised in evening. All legs, all glory you tip toe around the water’s edge. Eyes cutting through each ripple, you probe the pool boys.
      Asking each: How’s the temperature? Will I find peace here? Are you taking your time?
      Holding my breath, I listen while floating atop the surface. Wondering if you see me gliding across the sky, each star broken by the soft wave of my body’s settling; except you.
      You are with me there, finding your spotlight shining from the mouth of the moon, never stopping to take mention of the clouds.

      Where are we going, Violet Chachki? Our fingers are prunes, our minds ripe. Which way do your heels point tonight?
      I offer a key to your chest and pray it grants me safety and I feel not unlike a child.
      Will we listen to the echos of young girls’ egos in the alleyways of this city? Standing by many shadows, we’ll still be lonely.
      Will we add to this collage of empty beer cans and tubes full of lipstick cluttering the streets? We are Warhol’s wetdream.
      Ah, sister, ladyboy, fiery young dreamcatcher, what sort of parade did you expect when the sepulchre built between your ribs cracked open and released the Atlantic?

A Swimming Pool in East Atlanta by Bonnie Hall
Bonnie Hall is a fourth year English major at Georgia State University and is a cancer. She enjoys hiding in used bookstores and crushing the patriarchy.

Untitled Illustration by Autumn James
Autumn James is an illustrator, designer, and printmaker from Columbus, Georgia. Her work primarily focuses on femininity, pop culture, and portraits of herself eating.

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