. . . . . . . . . .Chihuahua Desert


Blood slid to soil
and our roots splintered
wide like needle-edged
leaves of agave.
We can never escape
this desert root, dry
to core and apt
for bitter survival,
snide thirst.

A cacti can be barren
then, overnight, sprout flame
petals, but the root,
that hollow moon-
mimicking flesh, holds
below sand in shadow clay,
below breezes that slither
over the desert. Cold
and hard to hold it

in place. This change
is western wind, only
surface sand will scatter
to confuse a traveler
searching for the single
citrine sprouted flower.


Part of The Learned Pig’s Wolf Crossing editorial season, spring/summer 2017.

Image credit: Squid Ink, via Flickr


The Learned Pig


Amanda North

Amanda North is a writer and educator based in Texas. She holds a BA from University of Texas at El Paso and an MFA-Poetry from Texas State University. She lectures in the English Department and Honors College at Texas State University. Amanda has poems published or forthcoming in The Open Bar at Tin House, The Learned Pig, and Yew Journal.