Mojave in July
By Angela M. Brommel
You can’t explain to friends from home how the desert makes it better, but you try:
Imagine a heat so dry that it presses down into the earth, releasing its scent so that it takes on the comforting smell of clay pots in your grandmother’s kitchen when you were a child, or your hideout under the evergreens where you used to sit for hours smelling only the dirt, the sap, the pine.
Imagine a smell that reminds you of the kitchen on holidays: sage, rosemary, and something you chase that is reminiscent of honey, but feels like love.
Some people still fight it. They call the heat oppressive, they call it unrelenting. They have not learned how to live within it.
You must learn to smell the water beneath the surface.
You must learn to let the heat pass through you,
warming your bones, your ligaments, and all the pieces
that you call you.
Let the heat draw out everything unneeded.
Let it put you to bed midday.
Let it make you new.
Images/Angela M. Brommel
Book cover image art/Su Limbert