I do not know anything– Arizona,
haven’t I written enough about sand?
California? The drought that masks
desire? Blue skies in all the photos.
High temps. I coexist with reptiles.
I live with scaly skin. Chapping.
I want you to know I think about it.
The click of lips, my secret stash–
some things we do not speak of.
I hold my finger to my tongue
but everywhere tumbleweeds
roll off the road into static. and
my mouth is full of sand,
spilling when I speak.

(originally published in Harvest International, Spring 2020)