Along desert roads, summer smells of death and choked heat,
luring rodents into bush and bramble, while the air,
with its red dust memory, folds the pages of decay
into the crook of brittle limbs, scrapbooking the killing season.

I’d become a casualty, standing roadside, hallucinating jagged horizons,
while the earth slipped underfoot, searching for thorny fruit,
not realizing I held smoke and flicker, enough kindling and spark
to stop the crush of sole upon my flesh, like petrified crusts of
scorpions laying along the tracks you carefully placed with your
nimble fingers soaked in gasoline, waiting for strike.

I combed washes for bones and better days, turning into scavenger,
strained ears and light steps, shielding myself from the glare of your
mica and lace, too late to understand, your wheels would
press firmly upon my back, grind my insides into the blend of
tar until the weight of me remained in the treads of
your carefully altered memory as you left town.


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