Animals—by Diane Pohl

Conversation with my sister

I spoke with dad today and he said he might go swimming this afternoon also. 

He said he wants to see the animals underwater.

He said he was swimming the other day also, which is kind of true 
because I take his swim trunks with me to the beach in my swim bag. 

I told him H has been doing a lot of diving lately and he said for H to be careful to not hit his head. 
I told him dad it’s not that kind of diving but H said it’s actually a risk so he was not far-off.

Yesterday we found another one of the guitars- this one’s called a Penco—it’s oversized- 
dreadnought style 1970’s—still so deep and resonant-sounding even though a little bit damaged 
from that heat in the attic.

H said he would take it to a luthier.

I got sad because the case has a small hole in it, which dad had repaired with a bespoke spot 
of duct tape.


Diane Pohl’s recent poems have appeared in The Lake, Slipstream, Nixes Mate Review, The Bookends Review, Ovunque Siamo, and are forthcoming in The Main Street Rag, I-70 Review, and other places. She lives in Cambridge, Massachusetts, where there are books along the sidewalks and always people to talk to. Her poem, “When you were 9,” won an Allen Ginsberg Award.