another southwest ghost story

I;

Stuck in the desert, sand blowing through my lungs

and it burns under the moonlight

colder now in the winter when the stars drop their sorrows

for us lonely creatures to swallow

them up.

In this long dead ghost town I scream out my heart with coyotes;

come morning my brittle bones will be theirs to chew.

I never knew when to stop.

[There’s tales of treasure in these parts. What is it that you suffer for?]

Snake bites in my ankles -- always there, always oozing slow running blood,

if I could wish for eternal sleep I would

but in the distance is the smoke of something hopeful;

I keep walking.

“Why?” I weep.

There is no answer.

My throat is made of sand; salt lines my figure -- sweat or tears, the Sun will

swallow them before I can figure it out.

[This world is full of ghost stories. You never know when you’re in one.]

Campfires and cacti.

I follow dusty trails and trampled grass that snaps under my weight;

even in the spring, the dry leaves them yellow and weak.

I know I’m close, but I’m losing more

now than ever.

[Are you the ghost or the teller?]

Wind bites at my cheeks and strip me of my flesh --

the mountains never get closer and I am so so alone.

My skin cracks and bleeds;

I know I am losing myself;

what’s forgotten never lingers long

and I can’t recall my own name.

“Please, please,” I whisper, “Do not leave me.”

But the heart never listens,

and mine is no exception.

.

.

.

& You;

There’s a story you always tell us, at sleepovers and campfires.

We can never figure out what it means.

You say: “Years ago, before this place became what it is, there was a ghost who wandered the desert. There’s never been a name to call them. Just distant memory. And so few of us still alive remember.”

You say: “This wanderer has no past or future. They came from nowhere and their journey has no destination. They came in the winter and they died in the winter, under a cold sun and isolation.”

You say: “No one sees them. No one really knows them. But I can hear them weep.”

This tale you spin always fades from our minds come morning and you have to tell to

us all over again the next time. We never remember the ending.

When you disappear one winter, your last words are this story.

It’s the first time we remember it.

It’s the first time we hear how it ends.

.

.

.

“I tell this story because I fear oblivion.

And I know what awaits me.”