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
mad props to etouffee