(d)Evolution: dry. heat.

i'm not expecting to grow flowers in a desert

desert: august

the soft thud of cactus limbs as they fall to earth—

spirits leaving spiny bodies.

the air is dense as granite,

scented with decay

*

a handful of raindrops hover between heaven and earth

the sky swallows them before they land

*

in this heat, even the moon struggles to appear

and when i peer beyond the sliver

in the absence of light, i feel

that tug. that tidal pull. the longing—i hear

the roaring flux of water in jagged dreams

*

this desert, once an ocean—

where, like rain, even a mirage is a memory

---

poem notes

I am fortunate to inhabit two worlds: a Maine island and the Arizona desert. On my brief August return to Phoenix, during the 147-day streak without rain, during the record-breaking 54 days of 110◦ F (43◦ C) or above, during the waterless days so hot beehives were melting, I snapped these photos. I am saddened at the wreckage; at the endless construction as this heat island expands and shimmers, ready to burst.

If the mighty saguaro—the camel of the southwest desert—cannot outlive this drought, how, then, can we?

---