I was born into the desert. Arriving too early, but still so large; a burden against my Mother’s small body. I demanded to come into the world on my Grandmother’s birthday, August 12th, guided by her spiritual tether, my mother has her eyes.
I was born into the desert. This landscape is immediately unyielding, I scorched my hands on the metal pole of our clothes line, but kept them there, anyway. There would always be time to outstretch them, always time for the sticky aloe vera.
My brother was born into the desert. So healthy and strong. An only son, the only sun, loyal, hardworking, and divined. Our black childhood cat was born on your bed – She was the last kitten from our generational matriarch and looked just like me. She was the first cat we spayed.
I was born into the desert. There was an ambulance raking his tires against the blazing asphalt tar, I thought the whole truck might melt into the earth. It was the first time since my father had come back from Mexico that we were alone in the house. Just you, me, and the stuffed lilac mouse the police officer placed into my small hands. There were still shards of glass in my hair days later. You told me it was only sand. I swallowed as much as I could.