I know exactly what I wouldn’t give

to stand in that haunted house again—


to have the long goodbye, fated-to-fail

antidote to calcified sorrow.


In the desert, a pillar of salt could save you.



The golf course, bitter reef of

abandoned grasses, flickers.


Traveling between shadows,

our skins pull away from themselves.


I lie in the dead heat,

not knowing that when I get home


the ocean will throw back

a skin of drained jade.




In the desert, we are all warriors,

venom is everywhere,


and the known world only

the beginning.




If you love your world,

you publish her secrets,

open the gates for anything alive.




In old stories, the sound of rain was medicine.

When the wind rides low


and you feel the blood coming,

remember it is only


the god you learned when you were young,

returning your call.


Meg Hurtado

Meg Hurtado Bloom is a poet, copywriter, and editor from San Francisco. She loves Russian novels, hotel bars, and every album Blondie ever made. She earned her MFA from St Mary’s College of California. Her writing has appeared in Split Lip, Lumen Magazine, The Volta, Hidden City Quarterly, the West Wind Review, POOL, among others.