Until I learn that the freshwater jellyfish
found here, in this desert canyon, are impossible
to see, I keep my face to each waterway passage.
The transparent medusa are the size of a penny.
We wind across and back with the river
all the way down our path. No rattlesnakes,
no scorpions, but the silent cactus—startling
in their humanlike appearance—in multitudes.
I had heard the desert was brown, but I see
green everywhere. Palo Verde, saguaro, jumping cholla,
prickly pear, organ pipe—these hardscrabble lives
anchor into the dry desert soil. I’ve had to unlearn
hoarding sustenance. To become plump
with monsoon and no guarantee of the next rain.
My little life has less ups and downs—
a routine where I watch myself peel away
into an alternate woman who never gave anything up.
She keeps Bunnahabhain on a low shelf
and a pack of cigarettes in her tote. She rides
the subway alone while I calm my fitful child.
She is indifferent to the life she doesn’t know.
The saguaro are patient, and time moves slow.
Emily Hockaday is the author of Blood Music, In a Body, and Naming the Ghost. She has had work appear in a number of journals including Electric Literature, The Rumpus, and Terrain. Emily writes about ecology, chronic illness, parenthood, and the urban environment. You can find her at www.emilyhockaday.com or @emilyaltahockaday.
Banner image is courtesy the poet.
