Here you are, Desert

119

Here you are desert.
Finally under my feet.
Before my weak eyes.
On my skin.
I was waiting for you.
Or you were waiting for me.
We met.
What do you tell me now that I’m here?
Tell me about your waves.
Your nothing.
Tell me the stories you have under the thin veil of dust.
Those brittle bones you haven’t been able to hide in hundreds of years.
Tell me about your hard land or the soft one that keeps track of my heavy step.
Who stopped in the shade of the tamarisk trees?
Maybe someone to pray, kneeling towards Mecca.
Or to drink.
Someone, like us, stopped to eat.
Thank you for these moments of refreshment.
Who are these lonely trees?
They are Acacias that have survived the air and the drought that nomads recognize from afar.
They are dots to connect to draw the road.
Here are your dunes, desert.
Big and soft.
It’s the folds of your best dress, the outstretched fingers scratching life away.
If you weren’t so handsome we’d be even more afraid of you.
Of your distances.
Of that apparently uniformity that makes you hostile to those who don’t know you.
Your Morgana girl is not enough to deceive us.
Not for us who don’t even see it.
You should look for a better mirage.
May it not be made of light.
If you want to play, invent singing stars, dancing horses or the scent of a freshly baked cake.
Now we know you can do it.
But fire is as strong as you.
And if we dance and sing around the flames we can make the rain fall.
Its raining
I don’t believe it.
It raining.
I don’t even think bread can come out of the sand.
Hot.
With the taste of us.

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