superstitious mind

when I turn fifteen, I will dye my hair red–

an almost burnt orange–

because I miss the Superstition Mountains.

the Southeast is too green, too humid, & caked in mud.

as the kudzu wraps around my throat, I am left

gasping for air,

buried until the light can no longer touch me.

we are both displaced, invasive–

imposters in a foreign landscape.

Arizona is always on my mind, & now everyone knows it.

when I turn eighteen,

I will be haunted by red rocks & volcanic ash.

the memories of Home will prick like cactus needle, &

the world I left behind will melt in the sweltering heat.

so I will light myself on fire,

run a hairbrush through the hot flames.

Mormon scripture & reggaeton blur & blend

together, burned into my memory.

standing on this ledge, I feel reborn somehow–

a Phoenix dusting embers off their wings before they fly.

but I am only thirteen so I don’t know any of this yet.

for now, I am loitering in the supermarket parking lot.

my mouth is stained blue from Italian ice,

my hair is still the color of sand dune,

& I am staring up at the Superstitions

uncontrollably weeping–

partly because someone crashed a plane up there,

& against the night sky, the whole valley can

see the fire– can imagine their bodies burning.

but I also cry for reasons I cannot name or place.

how prescient this all feels.