Cinco de Mayo, the city is drowning
in tequila and the first rainfall
in months, and she is home on the couch,
cupping a book like an injured baby bird,
pen and notebook just within reach and
and she wishes someone would
take a secret photo
of this moment:
and fingers like piano wire, the arc
of peacock-green, the whole of her
a poem, incorrectly translated.
The desert drenched in the sleepy
sweat of creosote and cedar, and
she doesn’t miss the street scene, she
knows her heart as cryptozoological creature:
they have theorized its existence,
but it always shies just out of view
of the lens.
Liz Napieralski lives in the high desert of Santa Fe, New Mexico, and has finally resigned herself to the fact that she’s not leaving anytime soon. If you were to steal her purse on any given day, you’d find a book or two, a whole lot of pens that she’s not that nice about sharing, and a notebook shamed by all the scraps of paper she inevitably writes on instead. (And not much cash. So don’t steal her purse. It’s not worth it.) Liz has worked as an editor and writer for Northern Arizona’s Mountain Living Magazine, FlagLive!, Santa Fean, and THE magazine. This is her first published creative work, not counting that poem from elementary school that made it into her hometown paper.