“Untitled,” McCoy Patterson ‘24
my (our) swimming hole
by Sarah Wagner ‘24
My hands shading your golden flecked shoulders
I push against your pliable body
drunk from a morning indulging peaches
snuck in overfull pockets
The water embraces you
rushing to clutch your spidery limbs
You emerge howling
mouth hung blissfully wide
You hum half eaten lyrics
Stretching your soft chest
to strung out sunlight
Gaze ambling on my ripe lips
We were boys together
“Granadella,” Langley Steuart ‘24
“2019,” Lilah Kimble ‘23
Sweet Simplicity
by Gracie Rudder ‘25
Softly. Simply. The water lapped up against the sand. I walked through the seamless edges where the wet sand was sewn into the last bits of the dry. The blisteringly hot day withered; it was now time for the sweater he had bought me earlier this week. It was draped over my shoulders as I continued down the soft, simple, seamless sand. I ventured back to the cottage as the last bit of that stern sun set beyond the bay and there he was. His sweet grin washed over me just as the ocean did the sand, seamless.
“Alicante,” Langley Steuart ‘24
the divers from jeju island
by Anonymous
when the female divers
from jeju island miss
the abalone they aimed for,
they don’t go back for it —
they come back up for air and
admit this and let go and move on
why? i ask with my knees resting
under my chin, sitting on the flat
black rock, my wiggling toes exposed
to the wet surface, getting hit
as the waves crash the shore, my hands
absentmindedly playing with the pink
rubber frame of the ahjumma’s diver mask,
why don’t you keep trying?
why don’t you get it again?
the ahjumma smiles at me,
faint tan lines around her eyes
rosy cheeks shining in the sunlight
her eyes crinkle into crescents
and shimmer like the stars,
her smile lines prominent and
wrinkles on proud display
her wise old eyes look into mine
she looks at my youth and does
not look at me with envy but
remembrance and affection,
and her calloused hands, rough with
hard work and salt water, hold
mine that is only calloused by
writing pages and pages of my youth
in essays and exams and evaluations
with her pruned calloused fingers,
she holds mine in hers and tells me
it’s dangerous, just like how you
young people chase after
everything with such fervor and vigor.
then should i not?
no, it’s fine. you should.
you’re young, you’re only doing
what a young person should be doing.
i just worry you’re pushing yourself.
this ahjumma is just worried about you.
when you try to go back for the abalone,
having already been touched once,
it sticks to the rock even harder than before,
you’ll run out of air. it’s dangerous.
do you ever regret it?
regret what?
passing up on the abalone?
no, it’s only natural to have regrets,
like you have regrets over what
could’ve been in your youth, but
i am happy with how my years have passed.
she pats my plump cheeks lovingly
and advises me before diving again,
if the abalone did not get picked,
it wasn’t meant to be.
it’s okay to give up.
there is no need to push yourself
until you cannot come up for air.
it is okay to let go.
— holding onto my youth only makes it cling tighter to
the passing years, so i am learning to let go