My father sits under a palm tree

because he cannot swim.


In the water, I dive

and resurface, dive, re-

surface, pulling us in

and out of existence.


When he sees me,

my head is a black olive

bobbing in blue sea.

When I see him,

his head is a coconut,

warped in heat.


The sun

lights a ripple

and snaps

my father in two,

leaving a white scar.

ISABEL ACEVEDO is an MFA candidate at Georgia College. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Berkeley Poetry Review, Tule Review, Santa Ana River Review, and others. She serves as Assistant Poetry Editor of Arts & Letters