DEATH Poem: The Bathers, by Brent Cronin

Scanning for a spot,
listening to Jhené Aiko,
I stroll behind
the bathers.
The beach is
packed with bodies
and their bags,
towels, umbrellas.

Finally, a free space.

I unroll my towel
and sit
on the light gray stones.
I pull the AirPods from
my ears and
drop them
into their magnetic case.
The lapping sea,
people splashing, squealing.
Incomprehensible Croatian
conversation.

Four Policija appear, wearing
black uniforms.
A woman leads them to
the orange umbrella
a few feet to my right and I realize
why this space was free.

The shape
of a person
under a white sheet,
two toes up.
One of the Policija
kneels, pulls
back the sheet.
A pale, swollen
belly. Alfred Hitchcock’s face.
A sour stink. I look away.

A blonde woman with
a flat, tanned stomach
sits watching.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Yeah he died.”

The Policija are
for some reason
peeling off the man’s trunks.
I glimpse a wrinkled pelvis
and can’t
look anymore.
“Are you okay?” She asks me.
“Yeah.”

I stuff my towel in my bag
and start walking
back down the beach
passing cafes,
threading between
people angled toward the scene.

The bathers are still
bobbing
and frolicking in the sea.