Saguaros

It was dusk for kilometers and bats in the lavender sky,

like spiders when a fly is caught, began to appear.

And there, not the promised land but barbwire and barbwire

with nothing growing under it. I tried to fly that dusk after a bat said la sangre del saguaro nos seduce. Sometimes

I wake and my throat is dry, so I drive to botanical gardens

to search for red fruits at the top of saguaros, the ones

at dusk I threw rocks at for the sake of hunger.

But I never find them here. These bats speak English only.

Sometimes in my car, that vicious red syrup clings to my throat and I have to pull over—

I also scraped needles first, then carved those tall torsos for water, then spotlights drove me

and thirty others dashing into paloverdes;

green-striped trucks surrounded us and our empty bottles

rattled. When the trucks left, a cold cell swallowed us.