Desert Skin in the Rainforest,
by Ariadne Makridakis Arroyo
Night sky on our side, we leap from cliff’s edge into blanket black waters, breaking surface like shattering a mirror. I sprout from beneath the waters and flip my head back, hair flying to slap against my body, the flutter of a bird’s wing, the shutter of a blind. My hand reaches for yours, a prayer, a promise, guiding you away from the watery pool. Nocturnal noises buzz in our ears, blurring the vision. I plant a bruising kiss to your lips. You roll yourself out before me on the rainforest floor, allow me to straddle you, hips locked. Your Aztec mixes with my Mayan, our lands touching, the boundaries cease to exist. My knees soiled, dirt blending into the pigments of our skin—this dirt so heavy with the ancient, the sacred: dust from bones, bloodstains from our slaughtered ancestors. Two foreigners wrenched back to the motherland, lathered in moon’s light. We carve crescent moons into each other’s skin, una luna de sangre, scrape and claw. Our cries yanked from the core, rippling outwards, terminando, arruinado.