SISTERS

Once, she and I swam together in the Atlantic.

Stepping in from a nearly empty Jersey shore,

our creamy feet flinched from sharp-edged

shells. We had switched bathing suits that day,

each posing in tight, patterned skin of the other.

Neither fit quite right, but we wanted to be

someone different – and the same. With pale

hands locked, we dove into roaring white-capped

waves, an unexpected surge launching us

into an awkward backward somersault. We

actually turned together, moved as one, linked

arms declaring that like Siamese twins, we shared

an umbilical. Looking back, I know the swell

could have mangled us, ripped shoulders

from sockets, bent elbows the wrong way,

forced us to let go. But we surfaced coughing

up salt water, convulsing from laughter,

fingers clenched in an endless, instinctual grip.

Jennifer Yaros received her M.A. in Liberal Studies, Concentration: English, from Valparaiso University, and she currently teaches high school English. Her poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in various literary publications.