Charlotte and I played brides with our mouths
on the nylon insides of each other’s swim bras.
We blew up new bodies in the veils of our spit.
There was a small isle of ponytail holders
and pimple skins dropped at the bottom
of the shallow end and they shriveled
and expanded against our movement.
She gave me surface dwellers. Hollow cups
half full of chlorine floating atop the false tide.
She put her mouth to my chest and filled it
with hot wet air.
The first time I loved a girl I was halfway
down her throat. Her soft tongue persuading
me into her esophagus. Her anxious invisible
stomach. Where I expanded like a seed.
Andie Klarin is a queer Jewish poet. Their most recent work has been published in Chaotic Merge: The Identity Zine and Revolute vol.3. You can find them on Twitter @Andie_Klarin, @andiekkarin on Instagram, or in real life somewhere in the woods.