rough, warm stone.
I bend down and grab
a handful of dirt,
massage it
between my hands.
What do I smell?
The desert:
creosote, sage, and dust.
What do I taste?
At home, I keep
a jar of chocolates
in my room.
I put one in my mouth
and focus on the melting
to keep me grounded
in the here and now.
In the canyon,
I taste only the bitterness
of my unbrushed mouth.
Who is with me?
No one but this snake.
No one but this snake.
No one but this snake.
Are you likely to die in this situation?
Yes.
KEEP MOVING
Move!
I yell at the snake.
Move, move, move!
But it only rattles back at me.
I need to keep moving,
so I don’t fall back asleep,
so I can find Dad.
Move, move, move!
But it will be me
who will have to move.
And so I run
around the snake,
but
too quickly,
too carelessly,
too clumsily.
It strikes
at my ankles.
I jump,
stumble,
crawl,
just out
of its reach.
It is poised
for another strike
as I back away
like a crab,
then scramble
to my feet
and run away.
NEEDLES
My run-in with the snake has left me
shaky, sweaty, dry-mouthed.
I need water,
but my precious puddles are gone.
I spot a barrel cactus
growing low enough for me to reach,
run to it, study it,
but I’m not sure what species it is.
Dad taught me there’s
only one kind
that won’t make me violently sick.
I pull out my sharp shale,
attempt to pierce the cactus,
but instead, the needles pierce me.
I try to shave the needles off,
but they don’t give.
Raising my foot high, I kick at them.
One needle pierces my boot,
buries itself in my heel.
Stumbling back on my butt,
I cry out in pain,
then dig the needle out of my shoe.
Standing again, I stare down the cactus.
Did I really think I could open
this tough, unyielding thing
with only my stone knife?
My eyes well with tears,
but I wipe them away.
Really, it’s for the best.
I’m not sure what species it is,
and that’s a mistake I shouldn’t make.
DIGGING
I have no other choice
but to fall back to the ground,
my knees in the mud,
which already isn’t as wet
as it was this morning.
I
push
my
hands
into
the
cool
ground.
I dig down deep,
throwing the wet dirt to the side.
My long hair falls in my face,
and I push my muddy hands through it
over and over to keep it back.
Why did I have to undo my ponytail?
My fingernails are dark with mud,
and I hear Mom’s voice.
Are you growing watermelons in there?
Save one for me, please.
Mom loved watermelon.
I think of Danielle
as I dig and dig and dig.
When we tried mud masks
and got mud all over the bathroom,
door handles, couch, and carpet.
How we’d each written a word
on each other’s foreheads,
and then couldn’t stop laughing
when we looked in the mirror and saw
we’d both spelled out the same thing:
POOP.
Dad said we shared
the same strange brain.
But if that were true,
we’d still be friends.
I dig and I dig and I swipe
hair from my face
with muddy hands, and I wait,
but the water doesn’t pool.
I fall back and stare at my stupid hole,
the mud tossed around the edges.
Breathing hard, sweating.
Hair blanketing my face.
My heel still throbbing from the cactus needle.
It’s always harder than I expect.
BEFORE AND AFTER
I sit and think and breathe
and twist one long strand
of hair around my finger.
I hold the strand in front of my face
and stare at the clear line of my
Before and After hair,
where my life broke
into two parts,
so easily identifiable,
like a ring in a tree thinner than the rest,
indicating a drought occurred that year
in the high desert, forcing the people
to move on to another place.
A park ranger taught us that at Montezuma Castle,
when the three of us used to adventure.
The foot of hair from the tip
is my Before hair.
It’s streaked with gold, red, brown, and blond,
as though it’s reflecting
the colors of the canyon,
vivid and shining and alive,
grown during a time
of safety, love, and adventure.
My Before hair is
hair my mother would have touched
when she was asking me about my school day
or telling me a new story idea.
My Before hair is
hair Danielle would have braided into a fishtail
while we watched movies in the middle of the night,
hair she would have rubbed lemon into
before we lay out by the pool together.
My Before hair is
hair that would have been
regularly washed, brushed, and styled.
The six inches of hair from the root
is my After hair.
My After hair is
irregularly washed, brushed, and never styled,
except to be put up in a ponytail.
My After hair is
only one shade, having been kept in the dark,
unchanged by desert days
filled with chlorine and sun and adventure.
My After hair has never been touched
by Mom or Danielle.
How can I do this?
How can I make it
through the canyon
with all of this Before and After
in my face the entire way?
A DRINK
An idea finally comes.
I need to separate
sand and water.
Filter. Strain.
I remove my white tank top
and lay it on the ground.
I scoop handfuls of mud onto my shirt,
fold it up like a sack,
and hold it over my head,
opening my mouth widely,
my chapped lips tight and stinging.
I squeeze.
It’s quiet in the canyon,
except for the buzzing of a fly
that has found me.
It whirs around my tossed-back head,
making me feel even dizzier
while brown water trickles into my mouth.