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.