Struggling with the thick glass door at 8th and Silver
you hear a girl's voice behind you say,
“Shit's heavy huh?”
Thick, sweet and familiar, a from-the-cradle voice.
Like warm caramel on a sundae.
Like summer sweat and sunflowers.
Like sticky bud and cut offs, mud and a white tank top.
Like older cousins. Like Woodstock '94
and the girl in the picture off the album jacket
who you worshipped
because she was 16 and you were 8 and she had boobs
and blonde hair and a beautiful slouch, her shoulders
curving into the shelf of her clavicle
making a half moon of her body.
A grunge baby-doll-type goddess sitting stoned
with flowers in her hair
and you were some shy kid on a ranch,
and everyone in the world was watching MTV but you.
When you turned around she was grown,
frail and bold in big sunglasses,
coke skinny and smoky ordering a bag of sweets.
You admired her anyway,
the syrupy slur of her words
and the weight of her wonderful slouch, her shoulders
still bending into herself like a hug,
like the mouth of a smiley face.*
by Ungelbah Daniel-Davila