We were three girls creek bathing 
in our shorts and tank tops,
barefoot along the creek bottom rocks. 
Shampoo bubbles in ocean scent
mixed with murky storm runoff. 
Our bodies washed clean
as our parents’ laughter faded,
rolled between the shared blunt 
of their lips.

We took turns 
washing one another’s hair.
Placed our hands 
under the small of our backs.  
We learned to float
as the dirt rinsed away. 

We taught each other how to be brave
enough to jump off Drip Rock. 
We taught each other when our feet hit 
rock bottom, to push off strong.
And kick, and kick, and kick. 
Until our faces met
the cold water’s surface. 
Hot sun and breeze caught our breath,
splashed our wide, hungry mouths. 

The wind carried our slim emptiness 
back to Mama and Daddy, who slept
with their sunburn and alcohol. 

Our six little feet
dipped into the water’s edge.
A single bag of shared chips
passed between us.
Stoneroller minnows nibbled the crumbs
between our quiet smiles. 

Us girls—
we kept each other safe.