top of page

What I Wouldn't Have Heard if I’d Remembered My AirPods in Tucson

  1. The tarp on a passing fruit truck flapping in desert wind like the thing at the back of the throat. Desert breath.

  2. My question to the cab driver-- "How long have you been here?" And his answer, "Many lives."

  3. His story- first as a native American, then a french soldier. How he had to grip the canyon-side in Tucson because memories of his past wife and children water-falled over his tired remembering body. 

  4. The scrape of fries from paper to plate at the airport.

  5. A mother begging her daughter to retake the selfie. The screech of reversal. 

  6. The tap tap tap of fake nails against plastic tray. 

  7. The thought “I will never be that sorta mother.” And the following thought– “Will I ever be a mother?”

  8. The sound of my own interminable longing, while I wait for boarding group B.

  9. The sense of empty space. How it isn’t nothing. How it glitters and floats if you relax your eyes.

  10. The low hum of a warm window against cheek, palm-like. The same sound-feeling as in kindergarten when, dreaming of a boy named Jason, I learned I could dream my way through life.

  11. My body barreling across table-blue sky like the tiny trucks the young boy I care for and am starting to love rolls across anything flat and clear enough, his brown eyes most gleeful when the table runs out but the going hasn't, and we fall together


bottom of page