Then I moved to the desert
and we both sprang up like weeds.
and the sandstorms left scars
in trackmarks down the years
of crawling on our bellies over
hot sand and scorpions and broken glass
to offer each other a drink of water
long-evaporated
leaving fortune-telling patterns
in calcium deposits
down the sides of the cup.

And we cast our lines
back through those years of sand
but we forgot that
winds change
and dunes shift
and footprints mingle and
boil and
rise from the sand
with cobras and cactus spines
in storms that tear the skin from your face
and flay you to the bone.

I hold you by the hand again
but it’s strange
the way our fingers slide against
each other
slick where the wind ground away the prints.

I left you drinking sand
And came back to find you gorged.
What a coward I was
to see the sandstorm advancing
to retreat safe and tell you:
“There’s a sandstorm advancing
look
the horizon
just there.”

Afraid to look back
And turn into a pillar of salt.
Afraid to turn back
And watch you disintegrate.
So I never checked to see you had followed.
So I left you there
and came back to find you
with scorpions stuck between your teeth
gorged
clinging to the sand.

—

By Joy
Photography by Brian Auer