I Do

I Do

by Sjohnna McCray

Driving the highway from Atlanta to Phoenix

means swapping one type of heat for another.

A bead of sweat rolls over my chest,

around my belly and evaporates

so quickly I forget I’m sweating.

Body chemistry changes like the color

of my skin: from yellow to sienna.

My sister says, it’s a dry heat.

At dusk, lightning storms over the mesas.

Violets and grays lie down together.

Mountains are the color of father’s hands,

layers of dark—then light.

People move west to die, retire in a life

of dust, trade the pollen of the south

for a thin coat of grit, the Arizona desert—

promesas, promesas.

We stop on the outskirts of town

and think about being reborn.

When he places his mouth near my mouth

because he’s so obviously thirsty,

when he moves to the well

where my tongue spouts out

because we’re mostly made of water

two-thirds of me is certain:

este infierno vale la pena.

This hell is worth the risk.