this ledge just large enough to hold him.
But with his injured leg
and his now twisted arm,
I imagine he couldn’t make
the final five feet of flat wall.
Or maybe he just collapsed onto his stomach,
unable to breathe, his lungs filled with mud.
Unable to see, his eyes filled with mud.
So very close.
I just need to drop down to reach him,
to reach his backpack.
There’s barely enough room for me,
enough that I could drop down
and not fall off the side if I’m careful.
All I have to do is swing my legs down
and drop the last few feet onto the ledge with him.
He’s so close.
But I’m on the
wrong side
of the canyon.
TWITCH
I fall
to the ground.
I cover
my aching eyes.
I don’t want to see,
but I have to look,
need to know.
I watch Dad
through splayed fingers.
So still.
I watch Dad.
Still like death.
I open my mouth.
Dad.
But no sound escapes.
In a hole in a canyon wall,
I screamed my voice away.
It drifted over the side
and into the canyon,
where it might remain forever.
I look up to the sky and I see turkey vultures
circling above Dad in the same way
they’ve been following me.
They are above him, but
they haven’t yet landed on him,
haven’t started pecking at him.
I drop my hands from my face,
jump back to my feet,
strain to focus my eyes on Dad.
My heart pounds expectantly
as I concentrate all my energy
on watching him
for any small movement.
And then I see it.
Twitch.
Twitch.
Twitch.
Is it real? Am I imagining it?
I don’t think so because
I feel it.
That finger twitch vibrates the air
in the canyon between us.
It sends waves of energy
through the atmosphere
until they reach my body and infuse it,
like a river flooding a dry wash,
with the will to go on.
The will to do what I know
I need to do.
DEAD
I stand at the edge
of the precipice,
threshold,
abyss.
There’s no way for me to get down
the vertical wall on this side.
No one climbs down.
If I hadn’t pushed my rope
back into the canyon,
I could have tied it to something
to lower myself,
then climbed back up to Dad
on the other side.
I spot a tree lying on the canyon floor,
not far from Dad.
An uprooted, dead tree,
drying for the last two days
in the hot desert air
and cold canyon winds.
My eyes move from one side
of the canyon to the other
as Dad’s words echo in my mind.
I think you could jump it.
ACCEPTANCE
Acceptance of self,
in order to fully heal,
is necessary.
GUILT
It’s easy to feel guilty, Eleanor,
when you have nothing at all to feel guilty about.
Mom and Dad only thought of me.
Sofía Moreno must have thought of her boys,
though I can never ask her.
I only thought of myself.
You did nothing wrong.
The other people hiding did nothing wrong.
Only one person did something wrong.
MORE
I’ve searched in this desert
above myself,
beside myself,
below myself
to find myself.
What have I found?
I’m more
than what one person did to me.
I’m more
than this past year.
I still have more
to do with my life.
More that is good.
More that is important.
More that is worth doing.
How can there ever be more
if I don’t fight for it
until the very end?
COMPLICATED
I’m scared of doing this.
Maybe I’m even crazy for doing this.
Crazy like
shoving your daughter under a table
instead of running away.
Crazy like
pushing your daughter up a canyon wall
instead of running away.
Crazy like
running at a shooter
instead of running away.
Crazy like
jumping over a canyon
instead of running away.
NIGHTMARE REWRITTEN
Booms
all around me from the thunder
closing in on us from the mountains.
Blood
covering my hands, my arms, my legs,
my head, my father, the canyon.
And, of course, he is here for this.
My wall is quaking.
The bricks shudder
and the stones break loose
as I let it all
crumble to the ground.
And now there is nothing
between me and the
Beast.
I turn away from the edge of the canyon.
He follows closely behind.
I leave the edge of the canyon;
I’ll need the distance.
A BLUR OF BROWN LEGS
She’s not here for this rewrite.
Sofía Moreno,
just a regular mom,
with two little boys
in the booth next to ours.
Sofía Moreno,
who tackled a shooter
intent on killing
as many as possible.
Sofía Moreno,
who died
while giving her two boys,
while giving everyone,
while giving me,
a chance,
a bigger chance,
a moment,
a longer moment,
to flee,
to hide,
to act,
to survive.
HE FOLLOWS
How far do I need?
You’re strong, Eleanor.
Far enough to gather speed.
You’re resilient.
Not so far that I wear myself out.
That’s not something you’re born with.
I stop about a hundred feet from the canyon.
It’s something you learn.
I crouch down
and tighten my boot laces.
You have to believe.
I look up at the graying sky.
Believe you can succeed.
I turn and face the canyon.
Believe in yourself.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath,
slow, steady, controlled.
Even when it feels hopeless.
I open my eyes to see
the shadow of the Beast
creep up beside me.
Even when you’re afraid.
I watch as the dark outline
of his exoskeleton
molts and drops
t
o the ground
with a nauseating,
crackling,
wet
crunch.
Even when you are
absolutely terrified.
And I know now
what is underneath.
But it’s not who I expected.
Don’t be defined by your post-traumatic stress.
I move my eyes
away from the Beast’s shadow
to the canyon in front of me.
Be defined by your post-traumatic growth.
REWRITING
It’s amazing
what can happen to a first draft
when you rewrite it,
how characters can change,
how much they can grow,
the incredible things they can accomplish.
You can’t judge a
story,
dream,
poem,
nightmare
by the first draft.
And if you’re able
to find the strength,
you can completely rewrite it.
FREEDOM
I sprint as fast as my
weak,
envenomated,
dehydrated,
exhausted
body can carry me.
I run from hopelessness toward hope.
I run from shame toward acceptance.
I run from hate toward love.
I run from anger toward peace.
I run from the Beast toward freedom.
But he’s chasing me now.
Not fast enough.
I see his malformed shadow
moving closer.
Not strong enough.
He is right behind me.
Not brave enough.
I feel Desolation’s putrid breath on
my sunburned neck.
Not powerful enough.
Decay’s rotting, pale, bony fingers
dig into my arm.
Not enough.
Despair will take me
before I can make it.
No. That is a lie,
and he is the liar.
I am fast enough.
I pick up speed
as I near
the canyon’s edge.
I am faster than the Beast.
He releases his grip
on my arm.
I am stronger than the Beast.
He pants from weakness.
I am braver than the Beast.
He whimpers from fear.
I am more powerful than the Beast.
The
blur of brown legs,
the legs of the person who saves me
in my rewritten nightmare, are
mine,
covered in dried blood and mud.
No matter where I land…
Wait too long,
and I will fly into the canyon
instead of over it.
No matter where I land…
Jump too soon,
and I will never make the distance.
No matter where I land,
I am leaving the Beast
on this side of the canyon
forever.
GROWTH
Self-efficacy.
Belief that I can succeed.
Post-traumatic growth.
FLYING
I fly.
Across the divide
that separates Dad and me.
Across space and time.
Across the universe.
Over the ruins
of my crumbled wall.
Out of the past
and into the future.
BLACKBIRD
My mother called me Blackbird.
She said,
Because you’re waiting
for that moment when you
finally believe in yourself.
That’s when you’ll arise.
That’s when you’ll fly.
Even now she’s here,
lifting me up.
Her love,
her belief,
her courage,
her beauty,
gives me flight,
carries me on the desert wind
to the other side of healing.
LANDING
I land
on the other side of the canyon.
I roll
over and over.
My right knee strikes
a rock and explodes in pain.
I am
finally still.
I am
on the other side of the canyon.
I am
alive.
My knee
shattered.
My skin
tattered.
My head
throbbing.
Rocks and thorns
embedded in my flesh.
My chest
constricted.
But
I
am
ALIVE.
DEFEATED
Lying on my side in the hot rocky dirt,
my head resting on one outstretched arm,
I gaze across the canyon at the Beast.
He is nothing but a white mirage,
pacing angrily along the ledge,
looking for a way across the divide.
But I’ve created a boundary
he can’t cross.
My boundary is not a leaky wall made
of shame
and anger
and fear
and hate.
My boundary
STRENGTH
I sit up, begin to bend my legs to stand,
and a knife stabs deep into my knee.
I let out a silent scream
as the pain shoots from my right knee
into the rest of my leg.
Trying to put pressure
on only my left leg to stand,
my whole body wobbles,
falls back to the ground,
more stabbing pain in my knee.
And so I push myself on my butt
backward with my left leg,
the hot, rocky dirt torture
against my sore, thorn-filled hands,
dragging my right leg,
every movement a piercing pain.
I pull myself to the edge.
I no longer have
the anger to fuel me,
so I draw strength
from love
as I prepare for
all
the
pain.
Lying on my stomach,
I draw strength from Danielle.
Danielle,
who taught me how
to bake snickerdoodles,
to braid a fishtail,
to dive.
Danielle,
who loved me even
when I was full of hate.
Danielle,
who I hope still loves me
and will let me back in.
Lowering my legs over the edge,
I draw strength from Mom.
Mom,
who loved writing
and inspired me to write.
Mom,
who will always be with me
in my head,
in my heart,
in my poems.
Mom,
who pushed me to safety
at Café Ardiente.
Mom,
who, even as the bullets
tore her apart,
told me she loved me.
Gripping the edge of the canyon,
I draw strength from Dad.
Dad,
who taught me to climb
walls of stone.
More skin tears away
from my ruined hands.
Dad,
who taught me to pull
food and water from mud,
from mesquite beans,
from prickly pear fruit
.
I look down, attempt to
pinpoint a landing place.
I don’t want to land on him,
but there’s so little room
on that ledge for both of us.
Dad,
who pushed me to safety
in the canyon.
This will be my last time
going into the canyon.
And I know I won’t
make it back out without help.
Dad,
who, even as the floodwaters
tore him apart,
told me he loved me.
TOGETHER
My leg hits Dad’s legs first.
My ankle twists
as I lose my footing.
I stumble,
fall on top of him,
then roll
onto the small sliver
of rocky ledge,
barely large enough
to hold me,
grasping his backpack,
frantic
not to slip off the side,
the pain in my knee
so intense,
I lay my head on Dad
and black out.
PULSE
I come to,
leg throbbing with more pain
than I knew possible.
I don’t want to look at it.
I don’t want to see
what’s become of my knee.
I grasp Dad’s
tattered, shredded clothes
to pull myself up to his face.
I hold a finger under his dirt-clogged nose,
but I can’t feel anything on my ragged skin.
Dropping my head,
I press my forehead against his.
I found you.
And I listen.