Brooke Forbes

A landscape dry and foreboding,
sits amongst an ever-blue sky and laughs;
sickly rolls of mocking laughter –

at those who wander when already lost.

In being new to this town there are parts of me that blend

into      the       scenery.

This mountainous backdrop highlighted –
in red dirt and touches of green.

I am told,
on a tourist-site monument –
that the red dirt is live with bacteria.
Constantly building and rebuilding the bright red
-orange dust that settles on suburban window sills
– as well as rugged rock crops.

Here,
the town is within the desert
and the desert is within the town.

But –
there are also parts of me that do not blend.

There are parts
that stick out like flashing alfoil in an SOS ritual.

My shoes, patent leather –
I can no longer wear due to the heat.

My books, based on English literature,
cannot interpret the cultural surrounds.

My polite banter, with a stranger
– lacks details of town locales.

Tourist, it says – a traveller by, an outsider looking in.

But I am journeying towards belonging.
I am attempting to carve space, eloquently or not.

It is a ventriloquist act?
An illusion of a voice coming from another source?
Am I puppet in the dry wind?

It’s a never-ending dance of give and take.

I bought new shoes yesterday
but I’m not ready to wear them.