island coconut

it seems strange to think about the way girls smell but it’s so important, so impossible to not remember some freckled girl you used to know when you wash your hands with lemon-scented hand soap. 

the flower girls with dark lipstick who baptize their hair with rosewater or perfume with names like “blush” and “daisy,” with bathroom sink altars and overstuffed dressers. 

the outside girls who reverberate earth and stone and cold morning water, a forest kind of clean, with clovers in their unbrushed hair, grass stains on their knees.

the cotton girls whose clothes are always dryer sheet fresh, unscented soap with the faint scent of crayons.

the coffee-stained girls whose bodies jitter espresso musk and starchy library books (and papers, papers, papers).

the smooth butter girls with arms baptized in shea and cocoa, hair blessed with argan oil, coconut chapstick, island soft.  

and i haven’t even mentioned the watercolor girls flecked in acrylic and clay, or of leather and lavender, moss and marshmallow, pineapple strawberry, cinnamon, motor oil, vanilla bean