and gently rock,
my feet pressed to the cave floor,
the bumpy wall digging
into my back with the movement.
I focus on securing my wall.
I shove muddy
globs in the holes.
I stuff bloody
rags in the cracks.
I smear reeking
black tar over the surface
so nothing can get through.
Don’t build your wall, Eleanor.
This is too painful. I need it.
No, you don’t.
It will only make you numb.
Numb sounds nice.
It’s not.
You won’t just be numb to pain,
but numb to joy, numb to compassion,
numb to love.
Living means feeling.
Tell me, Eleanor,
do you want to be dead?
No.
Because no longer feeling means
you are dead.
PIERCING
A sharp pinch in my back
pierces my numbness,
shows me I’m still alive.
It feels as though someone
has stabbed me
with a saguaro needle.
I let go of my knees
and grasp frantically at my back.
And now something is
crawling,
creeping
on my skin.
I let out a soundless shriek,
jump up and hit my head
on the low ceiling.
Another sharp pinch.
I’ve been stung twice.
By what I don’t know.
Dizzy from the blow
to my head,
I struggle to peel off
my tank top
in the small space,
then throw it in the corner of the cave
away from me.
I grab my boots and strike and slap and slam them
against my shirt in the flickering light,
trying to kill whatever might be inside.
When lightning strikes,
I see the scorpion crawling out
and smash it again with my boots.
I try to make out what kind it is
in the flashing light.
The small size and shape
tell me all I need to know.
STUNG
I have been stung
by a bark scorpion,
the most venomous
scorpion in the desert.
Twice.
My thirsty veins
desperately lap up
every drop of venom.
My back begins to burn.
The flame spreads
like ripples over my skin.
Someone has taken a
blowtorch to my outsides
and filled my insides with ice.
My head
spins.
My tongue
swells.
My muscles
twitch.
My eyes
roll.
My insides
roil.
I lie on my side,
pull my legs up to my bare chest,
and concentrate on not vomiting
what muddy water I might have left
in my stomach.
HEART
I’ve never realized
how fast, loud, painful a heart
is able to beat.
REMEMBER
I pray for help,
though I don’t know
who or what
could possibly help me
here inside a hole
in a wall
on the side of a canyon.
How long would it take
for someone to find my body?
Will anyone care?
Will they remember?
If I die here,
will people remember
Café Ardiente?
Will they remember
me, Dad, Mom?
Will they remember
Sofía Moreno,
just a regular mom
with two little boys
in the booth next to ours?
Because of what she did,
maybe I can find the fight
to keep going.
But I feel like I’m fading away,
and I don’t have the strength
to stop it.
INSIDE A TENT
It’s storming outside, light flashing
through the thin fabric.
I’m facing a wall—a tent wall.
I roll over and find Danielle
bundled in a sleeping bag,
big brown eyes watching me,
blankets pulled up to her nose,
face crinkled so I know
she’s smiling.
What?
I can’t believe you
threw my fish back.
It was too small to keep.
Two bites at best.
Not even enough for a fish taco.
I was going to raise it.
To become a full-sized fish taco?
Danielle laughs. She has such a funny laugh,
like someone sped up a video, fast and high-pitched.
No! For a pet!
You can’t keep a bluegill for a pet, dork.
She throws the blankets down, sits up,
curly black hair a big mess from two days of camping.
Yes, I could!
I would have named it Danny.
Yeah, you could have dressed it in little
fish clothes and taken it for walks
in a portable aquarium on wheels.
We both crack up,
falling back onto our sleeping bags,
burying our heads in our pillows.
Then Danielle sits up again.
Her smile falls.
Her eyes widen.
She looks afraid.
What? What’s wrong?
Danielle slowly raises an unsteady finger,
points at the wall of the tent.
There’s something out there.
I turn, press my hand to the fabric.
It’s cold and hard when it should be
warm and soft.
Hand still held to the tent wall,
I look back at Danielle.
It’s a monster, Nora.
ONE LAST LIE
Please tell me the truth, Eleanor.
Who is the Beast?
Don’t
Ever ask again.
My answer stands.
Once and for all, he’s
Not real.
HE’S HERE
A clap of thunder,
and I’m back in the cave,
one sore hand pressed
to the cold stone wall.
I pull my hand away and see
a dark handprint when the sky
flickers with light.
The booms fill the cave,
and the flashes reveal
the cave is covered
with blood.
And now someone is climbing
up
the
canyon
wall.
I hear grunts,
rocks breaking loose
and falling to the canyon floor.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer.
He’s here.
THINGS I DON’T TELL
The Beast
is dead, pale eyes
and jagged teeth
and sharp claws
and camouflaged exoskeleton
that glows
by the light of the moon
like the scorpions
under Dad’s black light
that creep up our walls
and over our ceilings
and then drop
into our beds