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A narrative description of Cactus

    Valentino leans back;
    rests his elbows on the bar,
    just the way a real cowboy would do.

Dulce Maria looks dead as a stick,
transforms once on a midsummer night--
Scents like fresh tortillas being made at a full service saloon.

Cactus touch her in a way flowers do not.
Like a haunted, monochrome harp she whispers in his ear.
The Desert People call it kok’oi ‘uw.

They share cracklings,
spiky sounds begin with brittle music,
for the razor-bladed dance

E.Haulfield

mad props to etouffee

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