they're still swimming on sunday

Allegra Lisa

when you lead me into an ocean, i
gently follow. it's what little sisters do.
and we swim so closely you'd mistake us
for washed up octopus eggs. this is suicide,
you whisper. and soon i am i am i am i am
i am i am i am i am i am i am i am i am i am
beginning to comprehend how i could never
give myself to you. not in this way. not at 9
pm beneath a sunsetless sky. we are both
so inorganic. so clothed in this bay.
plastic without gills. without fins.
without purpose. yet the ground
soon dips, and we are giving way to
these truths the deeper we tread. i think
this was painted in the crook of your elbow.
in the callouses on your heels and the hair
you cut off that one summer three years ago.
that we are predisposed to love anything
we can absorb. we weren't born mountains,
after all. we were bred out of stagnation.
to move. this is our final canal. this is
us paddling towards a close embrace.
when you lead me into an ocean, i
gently follow. it's what little sisters
do.

ALLEGRA LISA is a Creative Writing Major attending Interlochen Arts Academy. She is from Illinois, though she's spent her summers in Alaska ever since she was a child. She enjoys writing poetry and scripts.