Words of Acadiana

 He found the shirt  behind the winter coats  creased at the sleeves  still holding the shape  of a man who was now just a ghost  For a moment  the whole room smelled of dust  and horses  and the long blue distance  between wanting  and having  He remembered the way  they stood beside each other  close enough to touch  afraid enough not to  Two men who could not fix it  so they learned to stand it the wanting  the ache  the heat of a body  remembered by another body He lifted the shirt  and laughed once  then almost cried  Outside the western sky  went on forever  Inside their two shirts  hung together  on one wooden hanger  sleeve over sleeve  two into one  He looked at them  until heartbreak  and happiness  became the same thing  Both burning down  through him  like whiskey. 

 In mountain footsteps  Desert Sky opens above  Strength borrowed from stone. 

 The desert keeps  Old agreements At night  I walk softly  There are currents here  That do not belong to the wind  The silence is listening  If I remain too long  It begins  To erase my edges  Morning lifts the veil  The mountains seem friendly again  And whatever was watching  Returns  To the earth 

 Even the sky gets tired of giving its all.  I relate. 

  Desert Dancefloor This morning I sit alone, watching the pulse of the desert rise with the sun. A rhythm reveals itself in the creosote, in the sparrows picking through gravel, in the shadows retreating toward the mountains. The earth has its own nightclub. No neon. No last call. Just heat gathering itself for another long set. It reminds me of New Orleans— rain-soaked nights, basslines rolling through my ribs, the dance floor crowded with ghosts wearing the faces of the living. Back then, I danced to outrun myself. Sweat erased the edges of old insecurities. The music made promises it could never keep. I know where the bodies are buried. Not in the literal sense. I mean the dreamers, the lovers, the beautiful wreckage of people who burned too brightly, who mistook the spark for the sun. Some are buried beneath memory. Some beneath regret. Some beneath songs I can no longer hear without stopping. Now the desert is my DJ. The ether spins invisible records. The wind scratches acros...

  I held your ashes in the desert. Not in a church. Not beneath stained glass. But under a white sun that had spent millions of years teaching stone how to disappear. The box was lighter than memory. I kept turning it over in my hands, trying to understand how thunder becomes dust. You were never dust to me. You arrived like monsoon clouds rolling over a thirsty basin. I craved you the way creosote craves rain— patiently, desperately, with roots reaching into places even I could not see. Your laugh shook loose entire seasons. And your touch— God. Your touch felt like galaxies colliding behind my ribs. Like stars dying and being born at the exact same moment. The universe was never silent when you placed your hand on my skin. Even now, holding what remains, I swear I can hear it. Not your voice. The echo. The afterglow. The sound of light still traveling through darkness long after its source is gone. The desert understood. Wind moved through the ocotillo. A raven crossed the sky. T...