Below the Organ Mountains

By Melissa Boston
May 9th, 2014

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Tonight she is tall enough to see
the green light surrounding him

fade into a silver oval to pluck from
the fastened sky. Overripe,
his calloused rind

should peel away from his flesh,
so all that is left is him, camphor

odor and octagon-sacs of sap,
broken to consume. A creosote
continues to flower in winter

when others fold into themselves
like bat wings. The desert starts here,

with the lights of some distant city
too far away that they are mistaken
for fixed stars. He grows as she

approaches, eddying to a dissolve,
returning to green light.