Prickly Pear Fallout

Any addiction to sadness alludes me now, thankfully. The Northwest feels enmeshed, heartful, saturated. Even in the city, you know your bedroom lies in the lull between two forested hills, cradled by moss & fern.

In this dusty desert expanse, I lie on the bed & the entire universe drops off the edge of this room, like a distant memory of nuclear fallout. Survival, extremes, emptiness. Ghost towns of gas-masked experimenters. Sun-leathered beatniks with dirty feet. 40 days, 40 nights.

Yet the prickly pear gives fruit, magenta nectar fluorescent in the sunlight, brighter than any heartblood. And we drink it, a child's treasure, a promise of the rough diamond's rainbow. It is not a plump fruit, but a clarified splash. Might it touch these thirsty veins? A sweet kiss on my pulse? Maybe. But desert nectar distills our better parts from the less desirable so that we might observe from a distance. Not a cradling, but still a gift.