Girlhood

Zoe Arruda

In a distant dream

I float on the smell of my best friend's laundry soap.

Honeysuckle, jasmine, hints of lemon and

something that resonates through the rest of my life.

We are sitting on the cold tile floor of her childhood

home's basement, and she is braiding flowers

and fantasy and adoration into my hair.

Her hands are soft and warm on the back of my neck.

Her hands are soft and warm in my own.

​

We are sitting on the cold floor of her childhood

when she admits she has not been happy for a long time.

I shift out of the intangible periphery;

it is my turn to brush her hair,

adorn her with deep red carnations and daisies and

clovers bloomed in the light of her birth marks.

I unclasp her jewelry. I wash her face.

This time when I hold her hands I place

the catharsis of the pale blue dawn in her palms.