by Kaitlyn Dada

A seascape to drown in
has rock walls to sit on,
individuals scattered,
perhaps sand farther down
it reminds me of what
came. Love is a wet word,
blossoming, with claustrophobic
vines, endless drops moments
unrepeatable, can’t
purchase a tear from a
starfish. A relief to
realize despite drowning,
because I’m drowning, wading
through waters fearing death
and absence of you, treading
water spitting something
stupid there is no shore
no hole no reason to
fear: faceless, smothering
breath, past suffocations,
eyes too focused on tears.
We met there I thought passing.
Here you are still, with me.
I sing of moments returning
to form memory. I
carry you with me my
mind in this sea, beside
me a boy holding my
hand as if only mine
fits, one moment lifts me
to the surface I can
breathe I can blossom isn’t
nature specific look
where you came ashore, slowly
beside me.

Kaitlyn Chisholm Dada is a playwright and performer utilizing memoir to embrace humanity through documentation. She began her love of storytelling as an actress and produced her first play in South Carolina in 2017 but most recently graduated in 2021 with an MFA in creative writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. She aspires to be planted and present deep in the outskirts of the Windy City as she explores what nature has to teach her, and as a result of this philosophy is not active on any social media pages.