I don’t remember the last time I touched a tree, yet I do know I haven’t touched a woman’s body
but my own. Fingers trace the grooves of bark. Sun scabs my lips. We are alone in the Sonoran
Desert, and she points at vibrant flowers, contorted cacti, and spiked shrubs. Latin hexes roll off
her tongue somewhere between Spanish and English. I don’t tell her that I won’t remember
Larrea tridentata’s name, that the language of it doesn’t matter, that when I squat to examine
blooms, it feels more like praying than church ever did. Musky grit floods my lungs. Burnt air
swaddles my body. We are sacred, not sacrosanct.
but my own. Fingers trace the grooves of bark. Sun scabs my lips. We are alone in the Sonoran
Desert, and she points at vibrant flowers, contorted cacti, and spiked shrubs. Latin hexes roll off
her tongue somewhere between Spanish and English. I don’t tell her that I won’t remember
Larrea tridentata’s name, that the language of it doesn’t matter, that when I squat to examine
blooms, it feels more like praying than church ever did. Musky grit floods my lungs. Burnt air
swaddles my body. We are sacred, not sacrosanct.
Katherine Schmidt is published in Pithead Chapel, Okay Donkey, Variant Lit, and elsewhere. She is the Editor in Chief of Spark to Flame. Find her on Twitter: @ktontwitr
Lost Balloon 