by Natasha Lumba

You were right.
One day I was just
gone, crossing
the desert with my
wheels burdened
by the objects
which carpeted
my life--

our life. And now
you sit alone,
old waves calling
back to you like
a childhood neighbor.

I am in the desert.
I am a desert,
filled and flocked by vices,
comprised of infinite
granules yet empty.
I've made friends

with the chlorine,
the freeway lanes,
the buzz of a vacuum,
the men at the gates.

Little baby teeth
plucked and hidden,
your sunburst eyes
and hyperbolic lashes
still saddled behind
my visions. It's hard

then it thaws like
packaged meat

and I can almost,
just almost, smell
what you ordered
from the other end
of the table but

I don't deserve a plate.
I abandoned you.
I left you to rattle around--

dried beans in a
hollow gourd,
buoyant yet dead.

So, no, we won't
be seeing each other
anytime soon.
And I'll only grow
farther and more
a handy oasis
for when you forget
how it felt.

The end is not the worst part;
Our marble parcels inevitably
knocked away and replaced

Natasha Lumba studied Creative Writing at University of Southern California until she dropped out to go into a career in fashion design. Nonetheless, she always has a journal with her or is scribbling on cocktail napkins in the corners of bars. Currently, she works in Manhattan, lives in Brooklyn, and tries to create something every single day, be it poetry, music, art, food or money.