13

We walked into the bar at midnight.

Bouncer stood stalk-still

at the foot of beer-washed stairs as

Designer heels and Italian leather soles

met cheap black plastic to deliver

us to our weekly gathering

of sinful commissions.

Soc turned her head to find me,

red painted lips formed words dripping

with weight of luxuries,

“I don’t even

KNOW

anyone here.”

We sat at a low table,

candles lit with twelve legs crossed around

a half dozen bottles of smooth, Russian vodka.

Glasses quickly clashed and parted

to the hypnosis of trance music.

I called out to the bartender.

One screwdriver, large pitcher,

light on the orange juice,

heavy on the vodka, crushed ice,

a teaspoon of Grenadine –

I searched

for my banig.

Ten blue tablets arranged in holy procession.

Took two and passed the rest around,

swallowed in anticipation of a night

to be forgotten.

We danced in choreographed convulsions,

bodies pulsating to manufactured grooves

to recreate some internal harmony.

I turned away from me

and stepped into the bright fluorescence of bathroom lights.

To find.

On the damp violet floor my uncle

and cousin knelt

in confession over a ceramic

toilet littered with lines

of fine, white powder.

Seen

Ziploc bag crammed

Crisp Peso bills rolled into

Fingers pressed up against nostrils

White lights, snow powder

And my white dress in surrender

And later

More white

Flimsy gown

On thin, crisp sheets

And coats speaking words

I can barely remember

Overdose.

Alcohol,

valium, cocaine.

This girls

thirteen.

-Erika Pineda