by J.B. Stone

The Mojave desert sandstorms into your bedroom. Saguaro cacti sprout their prickly bodies into the walls, their blossoms open like daydreams in your sweaty folds, longhorn skeletons submerged in the hardwood floors. King snakes, and rattlers slither from underneath your bed. Gila Monsters and Horny Toads stealthily crawl inside the biome of hell sweltering inside the space where you slumber, the space where you pray for rain more than you would to god, because you know the rain will pour from the heavens… eventually, long before your mother’s version of god shines down from it.