we are surrounded by hauntings that the light can't chase away,
no matter how harsh or how bright
the sun is just a sun, burning us down the the bone.
i used to wonder at the sirens that sang in the night,
check the news to sate my curiosity only to find that ever present
n o t h i n g
that lines the street of this dusty city.
by now, i've learned that no news is good news
and when there's a breaking story it comes with a corpse.
the desert is described as blank and boring,
sand and heat and drought;
you'd think it's enough to keep people away,
but still they come in search of endless summer
while the rest of us keep our secrets close to our chest
and smile when they comment on the weather.
it's hard to differentiate between the dead and the living
when your whole life is filled with ghosts --
i've been drifting, half blind, down barely familiar streets
and i don't know which category i fall under.
(the desert is a possessive thing; she won't give up her bodies without a fight.
all the buried bones in the sand carry a curse,
but the moment your born here it's weaved into your blood --
i've never known what it's like to belong to myself
when the howling winds of night trap me between
mountains that swallow the horizon
but the sky is blue enough that i can drown in it, and forever doesn't seem so long
when i know this southwestern desert has a home for me always waiting.)
here's the rule: don't ask questions, and the desert might let you out alive.