Ode to the Deserted

iriana nimnualrata

I look around and see

the sun melting on

the desert in front of me.

Syrup drizzles and glistens

on the bushes as the night approaches.

There’s no one here to listen.

There’s no one here but me.

How I love these moments

of silence and calm.

Away from the people and cars.

And the thoughts that never

go away, unless I’m outside

with my feet on the glittery sand.

It’s heat is sometimes heavy

and dryness sometimes lonely,

but the sights are always lovely.

Especially when the sun begins to set—

apart my dreams and fears.

At night, the desert grows cold

but like a cobija,

it engulfs me yet so.

The grillos coo me.

They sort me out

and stop my brain from

exploding like a piñata.

Without it, my brains would

scatter on the floor like candy.

Rocaletas and masapanes—

whatever you wanna call it.

Hungry hands would keep

reaching through the scraps

leaving only the shell of the mâché

that used to be apart of me.

That is why I know the deserted

desert loves me.

It stops this from happening.

It lets me roam it and hold it.

It grounds me.

In my palms, rocks make their way home.

They remind me of the place that surrounds me.

The place I grew up in.

The place that I can rely on,

the place that has become a part of my me.