I was born to a climate that breeds warriors. This is not
my Darwinian logic, but wisdom shared with me by a kindred spirit,
raised as I was, fighting up through the pockets in boiling gravel,
bleached thin and strong under the furious eye of the Western sun.
He asked me about my roots and I told him of the shallow clay
that couldn’t hold them. Arizona in the blood, running thin
down the cracked banks of long-dried creeks. Familiar desert
flora growing up mean, made of spines and needles and burs,
short roots and bodies built to wander.
Ours was not a giving soil.
We did not meet in our shared homeland, but spotted a likeness
some miles off, recognizing a greed in our respective skins, sucking
moisture out of the muggy air, choked on the luxury of plenty after years
of drought. Unexpected companions on an accidental pilgrimage to
this place, where we learned the pleasures of liquid abundance.
The desert did nothing to earn our loyalty, but still in this time of feast—
glutted on afternoon showers of warm summer rain—we praised
our memories of famine. Funny, that we two tumbleweeds should follow
the same hot currents to the same far coast. You’re an asshole,
he explained, when I asked what spine or needle or bur had spoken
my origin without my consent. Teddy bear cactus looks soft to the touch
but it bites hard, hooks in deep, leaves a scar. No magnolia blossom
or sweet jasmine vine could do so much damage. I took it
as a compliment and told him he was an asshole, too. He knew
his needles well, and we laughed together because kindness sat,
sweet and strange as water in each of our parched throats.