| How to get around it isn’t clear. A thicket hedged across the road, a high curve mass of tumbleweeds. Wind draws their tendrils tight. How to get around them. To the left, uphill, to the right, the place we used to be, where tumbleweeds won’t tumble. Earth and sky and thorny combs that card them to each other. You’re loose from your root, hair caught in a knot at your nape. Touch a tumbleweed, it springs back. Tossed upon its thickest wisp, a length of sisal twine worked stiff, a fishnet glove the air can wear. How it blows between you. The wind that names the tumbleweed, names its purpose, calls it by the way it moves. I didn’t know you had a cactus now tattooed across your back. I haven’t seen you naked in so long. Copyright © 2016 Iris Cushing. Used with permission of the author. |
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