Faylita Hicks “The Desert”

The Desert
by Faylita Hicks

We can only count how many were here by the number
of bras that are left still clinging to the leaf-less trees
out in the desert. By the ones that are stretched and
spread and clasp as though they were still holding hands
when it started. Out there in the desert, the nights
are always filled with coyotes howling at the raised
round mounds, the many moons of the naked and young
fragmented bodies, the taken. Out there in the desert, the beasts
are ganging up and gobbling down the crescents and curves
of every whisper of a woman and still they move. A crop
of gorgeous breasts marching through the desert, unbound
and bare, in the achingly empty furnace of god’s country.
They move. Follow there the path of torn lace, satin,
and cotton and trace there the bended and broken wires up
the mountains and into our cities. Come round right here
where I hold it in my feeble hands. The smallest of all
the pieces left. It is hanging from the branches of a shadow-less tree
out there in the desert. Where we lose the women to wolves. Where
the flesh is rogue and roughs and converts all coarse. Where the breast
becomes nothing more than burnt bone. Where we can only count
how many were here by the number of bras that are left.

Where sometimes, that strange acid rain leaks reeking white
down ashy brown legs crushed open in the jilted hills of this here

desert.

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