at wagga beach

on the weekends and after school you went down

to the beach and this was when you were young and

worrying about pubic hair, breasts and dickheads.

it was about a decade since you almost drowned

in the murrumbidgee at hay and well past that

memory of the woman who dragged you up when

you were heading down, downstream. seeking

shade those summers we unfurled our towels under

the red gums down at the beach where the river’s

curve stopped the sand. we walked upstream past

the caravan park to the rocks where we slid into the

river and swam to the other side, swinging on the

rope and jumping from the trees that overhung.

mostly we went with it and floated down to the

beach on tractor tubes or just with our bodies. it

was nice, waiting for the five o’clock wave. a kiss on

the other bank. a glimpse of your breast. walking

you home. it was a place to skim tennis balls.

but then once, across the river where the current

undercut, where we all jumped from the bank into

the river, someone decided to

dive