my friend’s inflatable trampoline
floats in her backyard cove.
black mesh swallows the sun
and bites at our bare skin
till we fill our hands with lake water
and douse our tethered island in it.
we’re playing sirens again.
not exactly mermaids –
the estranged cousin, maybe,
of that sort of nymph.
in lieu of seashells, we collect
the souls of imaginary sailors.
in our swimsuits, candy-colored and fitted
for bodies we will never grow into,
we sprawl on the canvas
and imagine ourselves desirable.
undeniable. we twist our shapeless hips
to and fro: come hither, come drown for me.
my hair is still long. my friend entertains
the idea that she may come to like boys
as much as she loves algebra.
we touch the water with the pale bits
at the ends of our outstretched arms.
we muddle our reflections.
Sarah Navin is a young writer living on the South Carolina coast. Her work can be found in publications like The Normal School and The Allegheny Review, and her fiction piece Chickenfoot was named an Honorable Mention by Glimmer Train Press.
Persephone’s Handmaiden was first published in Issue 11 of Apeiron Review.