This would be easier if I shed data, sought torture or was looking for love along the way.
Doing the 9-5, the rattlesnake on the sandstone gets nicked by everything churning in the wind. The July sun tunnels overhead. My van rusts where the paint’s chipped. Steel, the desert must want it back.
The foxtail sees us, stretches and then lies down on the mica and clay. To the ember strip on the hill comes fire hoses. Arcs of water moved by the wind look like dirty eyelashes. One day we’re married. 110 Citrus Glen Lane collapses, and rots. It gets up when no one’s looking, and shakes itself off, like a wet dog. That dark creek where the trees crowded the sides / on the overpass he was driving when my hand slid into his brief consensually.
On October 16, 2001, mid-afternoon, it snowed.
Joshua Escobar studies in MFA program at Bard College and the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California at Berkeley. Contact him at [email protected]