frito girl

Frito girl,
so confident.
She offers me an icemilk
after feeding her goats.
Me, so shy.
Her mom calls me mija,
but I am only a gringa.
I want to show her
the piece of moss I peeled up for her.
Like velvet,
and the smell of cool dirt,
and the damp of rotting leaves;
nothing like the smell
of her.
She smells like
Fritos.
Like salt.
Like corn.
The tip of my tongue
burns and my mouth waters
just thinking about her.