I know better than to lean on the rail of the dock
but I lean anyway, belly-balanced, letting my nose and ponytail dangle

 
over murked reflections of themselves and my new necklace
that sways as it taps my chin. I reach

 
for the water-dark me, the one that eats crabs all the time,
crabs raw and scrabbly that cling to dock posts among the barnacles

 
and wait for chicken legs. The clasp slips on my bracelet,
brand new, too, and it flies up into my hand, my dark wet hand,

 
which grasps it. That girl down there slips my bracelet
into her pocket full of sediment. I lean deeper,

 
swipe at her hand and she dashes herself into pieces.
My fingers are dripping, stomach scraped. I am no longer she.