Mojave

by Casady McEvoy

 

You spoke, methodical and

Slow, words that meant some

Thing, but I didn’t pay attention

Instead, I watched

 

The way your tongue moved 

Resting on the bridge of your

Mouth, clicking against the 

back of your front two bucks 

And your throat kept constraining

Thickening around the introduction 

Of your shoulders, like every 

Muscle was forcing itself to get

Bigger. And somewhere not far

Off:

 

A thing dies under the hot sun, a

Nameless thing because we never

Spoke of it. But I know one day you

Or I, will walk back into that desert

And bury ourselves in the oncoming

Sand. Asking for water, praying for

Forgiveness, and finding a carcass

Without a tongue, without lips, just

A grin from earless hole to earless

Hole.