You’re so handsome when you’re a girl. A mean waitress, the flat cool side of the knife that flashes vertical. With our feet child’s posed to the water, our calves pressed together like barbies kissing, we pass a tall boy back and forth. I reglue the pistachio shell around its brain. You keep a cigarette butt as a bookmark, the ash squeezed soft like an eyeball popping out of its socket. When we finally jump, water strings a red thread from my center to skull until it spills out my puppet mouth.

Lexi Clidienst (she/her) is a poet from Texas. Her work appears in HAD, Expat Press, and others. You can talk to her about odes or send her dive bar recommendations on Instagram/lonestar.princess.