Warm and Hollow Places

Ill show you something new, you said. Our classmates called me the hero-worshipper,
and claimed you bought my time. When we got off the plane, my eyes stung from the dry air. I
hid them under glasses Ive long since abandoned. Your grandparents rented a car and drove us
up mountains. This world was knife-sharp, edges smoothed with sandpaper, just like you. The
sky was spotless eggshell blue, wisps of clouds like dragon ribs. A single touch, I thought, would
shatter it.
Was it your house or your home? There were so many pieces of you scattered, sand-
like. The front yard was carefully overgrown, filled with strange trees and flowers to lure
hummingbirds into view. There were many windows, all large and clean, with silhouettes of
swallows taped on so birds wouldnt try to hurl themselves past their reality. You showed me all
the nooks and crannies. You teased me merciless. Your arms were open.
We went to a desert museum, gravel and saguaros and checkerspots. It all was new.
Someone groped me in a dark tunnel as we peered at rattlesnakes. I met a mountain lions eyes
from behind glass and wire. I learned nothing. Everything grew hazy as the sun wandered
down, spilling gold over the jagged skyline, the lovely ruin. Scorpions, you told me, glow under
UV light. Does everything deadly shine?
The backyard boasted a small pool, a blue thimble in the aerial shot of our movie. We
soaked until our bodies pruned. As stars began to blink, a bat swooped down and scooped up a
mouthful of the chlorinated water. Wonder flew out of our mouths on its own wings. It was a
snapshot of our youth: bobbing in our personal ocean, surrounded by a water-starved world.
We saw a Gila monster on the driveway, spotted yellow and black. Woodpeckers woke
us in the morning. Your grandfather cooked beans and tortillas and served them on cerulean
glaze. My hands were dirty and my heart was full. We were living off of sunlight. Im a
daydreamer, Ill admit. I could have stayed there forever. We were bubbles floating on the
wind.
A desert cardinal chirped outside my bedroom window. Was this paradise? The people
seemed only half-alive, and yet my blood pulsed red-hot. The sun outlined you in gold and
yellow, burnishing the curls of your hair. At a farmers market, bustling with turquoise and
russet clay, I bought a bright popsicle that stained my mouth fuchsia. Prickly pear, the sign
read. You warned me that I might not like the flavor. I filled my mouth with sour-sweetness. I
offered you a taste.
One morning, after the paint had dried on the sky, we went for gelato. The happy sun
melted our cups from cold to cream. I wiped the sugar off my hands. Do you think about the
future? you asked. Back at ground zero we were pet birds, our round cages shoved into square
spaces. We didnt want to think about it. You were made for fire and starlight, not brick walls
and mathematics, and I was meant to drown you beneath my waves. I think about it all the
time, I said.
 I covered the bed and carpet with my things; hid my luggage in the closet. You laughed
at how easily I adapted myself to new worlds, said it was like I shed my skin. I liked the idea
more than I let on: pictured leaving little pieces of myself everywhere, always being able to
come back. We brushed our teeth side by side in the narrow bathroom, wearing matching
oversized shirts. You hummed under your breath, songs I couldnt quite place. I said goodnight
first. We slept in different rooms you were only a door away, but it seemed farther. Youre
always looking just past the horizon, over the mountains and sand. What do you keep inside
your mind? Where do you go when you leave your body? You turn your head away; you say,
Not today. You show me old animated movies, a hot tub on a hilltop, a cluster of javelina bones.
I would have broken the sky and let galaxies bleed through, if only you had given the word. I
would have stayed forever.
We posed for a picture with your grandmother in front of the house. It began to rain
gentle drops then hail pounded from the sky and onto our heads. We scattered, screaming
with laughter. The desert burst to life around us in a riot of change and sound. Inside, you
tossed me a towel to dry my hair and slung an arm around my shoulder. I wish this would never
end. I put out a cup to catch the water. It tasted like dust and fire.