Sun was noon high, she says, and there she was, olive-ing her way down the throat of the falls praying to the gods that taught her. 

And the tree people, she says, bowed their rustling heads over the river brim as they spidered along on their roots to meet her. In that rushing, gin cold bath, she says, she washed them with her rock bitten hands while hitchhiker fish barfed themselves out of her hair. 

It was ancient and sacred she says. She says shit like this all the time. She says, if you were born on a boat, you’d be a boy, stronger. She says, if only you learned to walk on your hands you’d be taller, lighter. She says she sees oil rainbows slicking the surface of my soul. Sickening to behold. She says the river was one thing, the tequila was another. She says she wants to kill herself but she doesn’t want to die. She says don’t walk away from me when I’m talking to you. As if I even wanted to try. She says your shards are showing, it’s time to get them scrubbed back down. She says your truth is not appealing; no one wants to pet your poisoned gown. 

I tell her to shut up. Shut up. Shut up. I say shit like this all the time. I say if you didn’t smile so much, they wouldn’t know how hungry you are. The noon is half-eyed and high.  We join lips at the rim, her sun tilting vermouth up to my sky. Gods fall down my throat like olives.