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.