Desert needles suck sugar from their ends,
the space between bloom refusing to fill.
The wind stops and starts again, tripping like legs
running through fabric. Milkweeds undress their leaves
like marionettes and their strings. Shadows arch
in the dark of crows lining trailheads, their pupils
denying the sun, their yellow irises adjusting
like targets. Two freckles since: one on the arm,
another under my nail. One much harder
to remove than the other. I take aim, patiently.
Sheets of sand slapping earth, the wind never fully
dead, and still, not enough spit to smooth stone.
What I owe: two black eyes, the rest of my face
back. Before you leave, I place my mouth over
the tail of the nearest jackrabbit, clamp
my ear down on dirt, pray for the thud.
This poem first appeared in EcoTheo Review (2024).
—
Holly Zhou is a poet and mixed-media artist from the California desert, the unceded territory of the Cahuilla and Mojave peoples. Holly’s poetry has appeared in The Kenyon Review and elsewhere. When not writing, they can be found exploring rocks by the ocean or in the mountains.
