Desert Mythology

My face is full of desert sands, hollows
shading the eyes except at noon
under the supraorbital ridge
lined with cacti that shake
with subcutaneous tarantulas.

Those spiders, no respect
for personal space, divide the lashes.
Swallow the dishes woven from
my fringe — it is all the food they have
to give. Inside, one bowl fills another,
cupboards stacked to the diaphragm
clattering at each cough. Move carefully.

If they fall, I’ll reach
through the esophagus,
straighten the stacks, brush
a broom across my back to clear
cobwebs and the mess.

No one said this was going to be pretty.