'Between Spines and Silk' by Alyson Tait

Roads stretch beneath a cloudless sky that doesn't have vocabulary to forgive—to have mercy. Heat presses close to the earth and everything between, thick and unmoving, and within it, the saguaros stand in ranks. Tall. Unshaken. Spines a warning. But the elements don’t show fear. They don’t ask permission before brushing against them. The rain doesn’t hesitate before running down their ridged skin, sinking deep into their roots. The desert doesn’t apologize for what it is, and the cacti don’t bend. 

And then there’s the bed—where breath catches, fingers trace the curve of a shoulder,  sighs slip between parted lips like wind through canyon walls, skin against skin, without fear, heat against heat, without apologies; the slow reverent unraveling of something that was never tangled to begin with. Only the confirmation of what had always been. The quiet certainty in the way a body moves when it's exactly where it belongs, once a tongue has tasted the skin of a perfect match. The world tried to carve doubt into bone and to make the heart believe it's a question rather than an answer. 

Outside, the saguaros remain, standing guard and providing sanctuary as they always have—spines raised, armor intact. But even the strongest roots crave rain. And even the fiercest things, given time, will flower. Even saguaros eventually seek confirmation that it belongs—deserves—planted in the hot desert dirt. 

In one form or another, they will always remain.

And so will this. 

And so will we.

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Alyson Tait was born and raised in the Southwest USA, where she walked alongside cactuses and scorpions before moving to Maryland. She has appeared in (mac)ro(mic), HAD, and Pseudopod. She has chapbooks published by Querencia Press, Bottlecap Press, and Fahmidan Publishing, and one book forthcoming with Graveside Press.