and each time the intercom warbles

an unfamiliar name as I search the pool floor,

follow lines that end in crosses

and dive into holes between tiles, live

my entire life in the other pool,

                                                                         ʎllɐuᴉɟ I lᴉʇun ‘ǝpᴉs ɹǝɥʇo ǝɥʇ uo

spot myself from below, ploughing

through the water, arms and legs

asymmetrical, neck hurting

from jerking up to gasp for breath.

Standing at the bottom, I realise 
                                                                                                               ƃuᴉɥʇou ɯɐ I

like the frogs we learn from. I am

a drowning May beetle we splash

away as it bobs, helplessly,

towards our mouths. I can’t

keep staring up, have to look

                                                                                                     ʞuᴉl ǝɥʇ puᴉɟ oʇ uʍop

joining the lines, seal the grout

between the tiles until a sound

empties the pool and reaches

my depths: cockatoo screeches

ring against the hollow walls,

                                                                                                     ‘dn ǝɯ llɐɔ

and blend with the intercom, where my own

strange voice, always a little too high,

too nasal, calls my own strange name:

Christmas, as if my presence was a gift

to anyone. Back in water, I glide,

                                                                                                     ǝɔɐɟɹns ǝɥʇ spɹɐʍoʇ ‘uʍop ǝɔɐɟ

to meet myself. My hair spreads like kelp

across the turquoise, undulates

on the tiny waves all the other bodies

send out. I turn, by instinct,

towards air: float on my back—

                                                                   a navy-eyed newborn.