By Wanda Deglane
Just when I think I’m in the clear, the pain comes creeping back like cursed moths looking for more light to smother out. They crawl over the sun that is my mind, stopping the seasons in their tracks. The earth is a dead dust bowl, a grieving animal lying in its own filth. Covered in soot, I walk the wasteland in search of an oasis I never knew the directions to. You find me crumbling on the other side of the planet, and looking up, I say, Save me. Tell me how to wipe the sun clean. And you tell me, That’s not my job. This is all I can do. You dig me out, lift me to my feet, take my hand so we can wander the darkness together. We remind each other of what the world was like before — the shades of greens on the leaves we never took the time to notice. The smooth cool of water, breathing life back into our throats. The taste of the sky when it’s blasted in pinks, of sweet manjar blanco licked from my fingertips. You never learned how to sew, you tell me. You can’t stitch me together. But I swear, I swear, there’s something about walking the barrens with a hand to hold that makes me look past the dark, take out a cloth, and shoo the moths away.
Wanda Deglane is a night-blooming desert flower from Arizona. She is the daughter of Peruvian immigrants and attends Arizona State University, pursuing a bachelor’s degree in psychology and family & human development. Her poetry has been published or forthcoming from Rust + Moth, Glass Poetry, L’Ephemere Review, and Former Cactus, among other lovely places. Wanda self published her first poetry book, Rainlily, in 2018.