and anger
and stone
and guilt
and clay
and fear
and rock
and hate.
Layer after layer,
but I know, deep inside,
it’s really all just
Frosted Flakes.
WEAKNESS
I wait for numbness.
I am colder than I’ve ever been,
both inside and out.
The wall won’t hold, Eleanor.
Yes it will.
Rewrite your nightmare.
Don’t make me
think about him.
Rewrite it into something where you
are stronger, braver, more powerful.
But I’m not.
But you are.
ALMOST
I am freezing.
I am almost freezing.
If I were frozen,
I would be numb, peaceful,
asleep, but not dreaming.
In some horrible way,
I wish I were completely frozen
because that wouldn’t hurt
as much as almost,
because I wouldn’t have to feel
him clawing at every tiny gap in my wall
that is almost strong enough
to keep him out.
LIE
Who is the Beast, Eleanor?
The Beast
Only exists in my dreams.
Really, he’s just
Make-believe,
Everything about him
Nonexistent.
The Beast isn’t rational
Or
Real.
NOT REAL
I feel lost, floating
in the ink of the canyon.
I slip in and out of consciousness,
too exhausted to stay awake,
too cold to fully sleep.
I curl my body
into a tight ball,
hug my legs
to my chest,
rub my bare arms,
breathe warmth
into my sore, sanded hands.
I wonder how much my body
temperature
is
dropping,
and I curse myself
for taking off my hoodie.
This night will never end.
Every time I drift, I hear him coming
closer,
closer;
every time I feel my mind slip away
before startling awake again.
Drifting,
waking,
drifting,
waking
all night long.
Shivering,
shuddering,
shaking,
quaking
all night long.
Telling myself
he’s not real,
he’s not real,
he’s not real,
all night long.
But
never
ever
rewriting anything
all night long.
WONDER
And then, something wondrous:
The sky is lighting again.
Relief at seeing the light
fills me up, spills over,
down my cheeks
and onto the cold rock.
I watch the sun turn
the ribbon of sky above me
from speckled black velvet
to deep purple satin
to beautiful pink silk.
I’ve made it through the torturous night.
My wall held.
I kept him away.
STAY
I need to move, to heat my cold body.
Pushing myself up, I peer at the ground,
which still looks damp.
I carefully slide down the rock,
allowing one boot to touch the ground.
It doesn’t sink in nearly as much as last night,
so I put both feet down.
My legs give out, and I stumble,
my knees digging into the soaked silt,
mud smothering and sanding and stinging my sores.
I stand up, dizzy, spinning, leaning
against the outcropping.
I focus on putting one foot in front of the other,
concentrate on taking step after step.
My rubbery legs feel more steady with each movement.
My breathing evens out. My heart slows its slamming.
I stop.
Should I instead walk to the Jeep?
Break a window? Wait for help? Who would come?
Too hot, no water, all supplies swept away.
Walk to the main road?
How far is it? Could I find the way?
Too hot, no water, all supplies swept away.
I look down the canyon in the direction of Dad
making his way back to me right now
I know.
He would never leave without me,
and I won’t leave without him.
COLORS
I find a small puddle in a hollow spot on a rock
and lap up as much water as I can.
Then I look up at the slice of sky
and long to be in the sun again.
The canyon looks different today.
Lychen bursts like fireworks around me
in different shades of green:
lime and split pea and mint.
The layers wobble and waver.
It’s as though a small child
ran through the canyon
while I lay on the rock all night
and colored the walls
outside the lines with
wild scribbles in
deep, angry red crayon.
STEPS
I focus on taking one step at a time
toward Dad.
He’ll find me.
He’s walking back to me right now,
just as I’m walking to him.
Then we’ll figure it all out together.
Step, step, step.
The air is warming.
My steps are faster.
My body is heating.
I’m so thirsty.
I stop at every puddle I find
in the sunken spots on rocks.
Each one seems smaller than the last.
I climb over a large boulder
blocking the narrow path
then reach a broader opening,
grateful for the space,
wide enough to let in more light,
wide enough for a flood-tattered ironwood tree,
debris littering its broken branches,
to grow from a seed blown down a long time ago.
Step, step, step.
I move around the tree
and the canyon narrows again,
shuts out the light.
Step, step, step.
Dad will find me soon.
LOSS
I see something in the distance,
sticking out of the ground.
As I near it, I find
a piece of garbage,
washed into the canyon
from who knows where.
An old plastic cup.
A sign of human life.
Garbage.
But a cup can be useful.
A cup can hold water.
Lifting it out of the mud, I find it’s only
part of a cup.
I try to put it in my pocket,
but it crumbles,
brittle from the brutal heat.
I wipe the pieces from my sore palms,
and they flutter to the ground
around a pile of broken shale.
One shard of gray shale catches my eye,
and I pick it up.
It’s flat and sharp on one end.
I run a finger along the razor-like edge.
It sc
ratches me, draws a tiny amount of blood.
I slip the rock into my back pocket.
This stone knife could be useful
down here in the canyon.
I imagine myself using it
to skin the hide from a kangaroo rat
and snort at the thought.
I move my hand to my front pocket,
but the heart-shaped stone isn’t there.
My eyes blur and my lip quivers
and I want to crumble to the ground
like the fluttering, brittle bits of broken cup.
I wipe my eyes and bite my lip
and stay standing.
I don’t have time to get all
bent out of shape over a lost rock.
ENDLESS WALLS
The light
lowers
down the wall,
warming
the canyon.
How long have I been walking?
It’s hard to tell when I can’t
see the sun.
It already feels like I’ve walked
inches,
feet,
yards,
miles,
and
miles.
My steps quicken
and my heart speeds with anticipation
as I round every new corner,
expecting Dad to appear.
walls made of waves,
like the water that carved them.
DEADLY
That sound. Effervescent.
Sizzling. Like Dad frying
sausage in the morning.
Coiled. Head held high and back.
Ready to spring, fill me with venom
if I get too near.
Tongue flicks over and over again,
smelling me, figuring me out.
A narrow tunnel of sunlight shines down
into the canyon, cracking the silt
under my feet and warming the snake.
It’s also drying the last of my puddles
and scorching my pale, sun-starved skin.
It must be about noon.
I pick up a stone from the canyon floor
and toss it at the snake,
which rattles its warning at me.
But it doesn’t move.
AWAY
I am so, so tired.
I am swaying on my feet.
I sit down on a rock
out of striking distance
and study the snake.
Looks like a diamondback
but
greenish tinge,
fading diamond pattern,
white rings on tail
wider than black rings.
It’s a Mojave.
Deadly venomous.
I have no choice
but to wait it out.
My head nods in exhaustion.
The warmth is like a drug,
dragging me under.
I keep my boots
on the canyon floor
as I lean to the side
and rest my head on the rock.
The stone is warm against my cheek
and arms, and I am instantly
drifting,
no longer concerned
about the deadly snake in my way.
I am gone, floating away,
into the darkness of my mind,
away to the place where he can find me.
ANOTHER LIE
You can be honest, Eleanor.
Who is the Beast?
Maybe you’re not listening,
Or don’t want to listen, but I have
No more to
Say.
The Beast is not
Even
Real.
PANIC
Booms
always come first.
Then the
blood.
I hear him.
He’s catching up with me.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
I startle awake.
Jump off the rock,
then stumble back,
away from the rattling snake
I’d so quickly forgotten.
Do it now, Eleanor.
Rewrite your nightmare.
I can’t.
I am spiraling,
untethered and wild,
like the whirlpools
I spied in the flood.
I am sure the Beast is coming,
and the rattling of the snake
has become chains,
and the red of the canyon
has become blood,
and the shadows of the canyon
have become death.
Ground yourself, Eleanor.
COPING
Grounding techniques for
coping with PTSD:
Use your five senses.
GROUNDING
Where am I?
In the canyon.
What do I see?
The snake, walls around me,
dirt below me.
What do I hear?
The rattling.
At home I’d turn on music,
but here I speak out loud.
I am here, in the canyon.
What do I feel?
I reach out and touch
the canyon wall:
rough, warm stone.
I bend down and grab
a handful of dirt,
massage it
between my hands.
What do I smell?
The desert:
creosote, sage, and dust.
What do I taste?
At home, I keep
a jar of chocolates
I put one in my mouth
and focus on the melting
to keep me grounded
in the here and now.
In the canyon,
I taste only the bitterness
of my unbrushed mouth.
Who is with me?
No one but this snake.
No one but this snake.
No one but this snake.
Are you likely to die in this situation?
Yes.
KEEP MOVING
Move!
I yell at the snake.
Move, move, move!
But it only rattles back at me.
I need to keep moving,
so I don’t fall back asleep,
so I can find Dad.
Move, move, move!
But it will be me
who will have to move.
And so I run
around the snake,
but
too quickly,
too carelessly,
too clumsily.
It strikes
at my ankles.
I jump,
stumble,
crawl,
just out
of its reach.
It is poised
for another strike
as I back away
like a crab,
then scramble
to my feet
and run away.
NEEDLES
My run-in with the snake has left me
shaky, sweaty, dry-mouthed.
I need water,
but my precious puddles are gone.
I spot a barrel cactus
growing low enough for me to reach,
run to it, study it,
but I’m not sure what species it is.
Dad taught me there’s
only one kind
that won’t make me violently sick.
I pull out my sharp shale,
attempt to pierce the cactus,
but instead, the needles pierce me.
I try to shave the needles off,
but they don’t give.
Raising my foot high, I kick at them.
One needle pierces my boot,
buries
itself in my heel.
Stumbling back on my butt,
I cry out in pain,
then dig the needle out of my shoe.
Standing again, I stare down the cactus.
Did I really think I could open
this tough, unyielding thing
with only my stone knife?
My eyes well with tears,
but I wipe them away.
Really, it’s for the best.
I’m not sure what species it is,
and that’s a mistake I shouldn’t make.
DIGGING
I have no other choice
but to fall back to the ground,
my knees in the mud,
which already isn’t as wet
as it was this morning.
I
push
my
hands
into
the
cool
ground.
I dig down deep,
throwing the wet dirt to the side.
My long hair falls in my face,
and I push my muddy hands through it
over and over to keep it back.
Why did I have to undo my ponytail?
My fingernails are dark with mud,
and I hear Mom’s voice.
Are you growing watermelons in there?
Save one for me, please.
Mom loved watermelon.
I think of Danielle
as I dig and dig and dig.
When we tried mud masks
and got mud all over the bathroom,
door handles, couch, and carpet.
How we’d each written a word
on each other’s foreheads,
and then couldn’t stop laughing
when we looked in the mirror and saw
we’d both spelled out the same thing:
POOP.
Dad said we shared
the same strange brain.
But if that were true,
we’d still be friends.
I dig and I dig and I swipe
hair from my face