Le Piscine est ouvert from ten thirty  

to seven, we’re stationed

in a caravan opposite La Chute.

I purchase le pain and watch the early

arrivals undress for the occasion,

form into trains and whoosh!

 

Les anglais sont ici, next to nothing

on bodies outstaring

the sun. Some pose for the camera, some close

their eyes before the drama and plummet,

the mid-stream screams of terror are tearing

the caws out of the crows.

 

I carry the clothes, les enfants wear floats

and goggles. A guard blows

on a whistle -  nous regardons L’Autre.

Sound drowns in water when cut from young throats,

thrown back and forth at the walls – I’m exposed

to everyday torture.

 

These kids are brainwashed and lose their marbles

each time they go under.

Depersonalised; je vois et attends

for their heads to emerge from the bubbles.

Je ne sais pas this one from another

and wave at tout le monde.

 

Beneath Le Piscine, Le Disco begins!

From the upper chamber,

music drips and small hands entwine with mine;

synthesised suffering, we dance and sing

to Bob the Builder, La Macarena

and Mambo Number Nine.