Sosha Pinson is a recent graduate from Morehead State University's BFA in Creative Writing. During her time at Morehead she coordinated a weekly creative forum called Coffeehouse and was a co-editor of the literary magazine, Inscape. She's recently been published in the Journal of Kentucky Studies, Pluck! The Journal of Affrilachian Arts and Culture, and Sanctuary, the official journal of the Southern Regional Honors Council. Sosha is from Pikeville, Kentucky, and spends her free time crocheting and hanging out with her cat, Dorian Gray.



Water Child I:

They call us mountain people
But they are wrong

We are water people

And I am a child of ice
born under Aquarius frozen
Sunday's child
Blizzard child
Full of Woe




Water Child II:

But I couldn’t swim
until I was ten
wading down
the boat ramp
of Fishtrap Lake
up to the white lines
on my thighs
from long legged shorts
to hide the hairs
the other girls
were already starting
to scrape away
in showers my
beige bathtub closed
curtains pruned
fingers holding
my nose plugged
underwater in the
neighbor's pool
chlorine lungs
always first
to come back up




Water Child III:

I come from Feds Creek
Lick Creek
Johns Creek
Chloe Creek
Raccoon Creek
Pond Creek
Big Creek
Turkey Creek
Island Creek

Nights I dreamed
of being trapped
my house underwater
sharks and sea turtles
swam by me
standing at the deck door
peeking between blinds

The way my mom does
when she checks
the creek water




Water Child IV:

When I sink into bathwater
the muted sound
of nothing
soothes me

Warm water keeps
calling me back
keeps trying
to get to me

Slides in between the cracks
of my fingers
the foundations
of my house
cracked open

Faster the way
the water tried
to grab my feet
as it rushed into my garage
when I tried to save
my shoes the day before
my best friend’s birthday

And for months
everything I owned
in my car while
the line stared me square
in the eyes
the water scarred
my house as a warning
It smashed our storage building
against a tree
when it realized
it couldn't get to me
strangled our
Christmas decorations
in the current
plastic Santa
bobbing away
waving a plastic mittened hand
to the neighbors
that lived
on higher ground




Water Child V:

We are a people who believe
in irrigation of the head.
We wade into lake water en masse
and let the Holy Ghost hold us
under sweetly like a mother
rinsing a child's hair, her hands firm
against the crown of our skull
elbows locked, head turned away
to avoid our arms flailing, splashing,
clawing when we attempt to come
up for air, remaining steadfast
until our body floats motionless
our self is drowned.




Water Child VI:

And at just the right angle
against my ear
the wind makes my head
a hollowed out seashell

Speaking from the swollen
veins of muddy water
set in land shaped by years
of ocean shifting
to air

It recognizes me
tributary girl
to Big Sandy River
sliding me slowly
from my bedrock toes

Beckons me out
of this foreign body
diluted by skin
but still mostly

I climb out of the creek bed
run across the yard shedding
a slimy tentacle
a crawdad claw

I forget
to breathe
in through my nose
out through my mouth



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