Poetry: Fountain Hills, AZ

The cacti grow straight here

or in tiny cozy bushels

I wonder what it would’ve been like

to grow up here

in the heat

in the dust

A girl with sweaty pigtails with rusty car parts between the rickety swingset

the last place a Starbucks should’ve violated.

The bugs make a nice paste for a batter fit for an armadillo pie.


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