The Canyon's Edge

by Dusti Bowling

   and anger

     and stone

     and guilt

     and clay

     and fear

     and rock

     and hate.

  Layer after layer,

  but I know, deep inside,

  it’s really all just

  Frosted Flakes.

  WEAKNESS

  I wait for numbness.

  I am colder than I’ve ever been,

  both inside and out.

  The wall won’t hold, Eleanor.

  Yes it will.

  Rewrite your nightmare.

  Don’t make me

  think about him.

  Rewrite it into something where you

  are stronger, braver, more powerful.

  But I’m not.

  But you are.

  ALMOST

  I am freezing.

  I am almost freezing.

  If I were frozen,

  I would be numb, peaceful,

  asleep, but not dreaming.

  In some horrible way,

  I wish I were completely frozen

  because that wouldn’t hurt

  as much as almost,

  because I wouldn’t have to feel

  him clawing at every tiny gap in my wall

  that is almost strong enough

  to keep him out.

  LIE

  Who is the Beast, Eleanor?

  The Beast

  Only exists in my dreams.

  Really, he’s just

  Make-believe,

  Everything about him

  Nonexistent.

  The Beast isn’t rational

  Or

  Real.

  NOT REAL

  I feel lost, floating

  in the ink of the canyon.

  I slip in and out of consciousness,

  too exhausted to stay awake,

  too cold to fully sleep.

  I curl my body

  into a tight ball,

  hug my legs

  to my chest,

  rub my bare arms,

  breathe warmth

  into my sore, sanded hands.

  I wonder how much my body

  temperature

  is

  dropping,

  and I curse myself

  for taking off my hoodie.

  This night will never end.

  Every time I drift, I hear him coming

  closer,

  closer;

  every time I feel my mind slip away

  before startling awake again.

  Drifting,

  waking,

  drifting,

  waking

  all night long.

  Shivering,

  shuddering,

  shaking,

  quaking

  all night long.

  Telling myself

  he’s not real,

  he’s not real,

  he’s not real,

  all night long.

  But

  never

  ever

  rewriting anything

  all night long.

  WONDER

  And then, something wondrous:

  The sky is lighting again.

  Relief at seeing the light

  fills me up, spills over,

  down my cheeks

  and onto the cold rock.

  I watch the sun turn

  the ribbon of sky above me

  from speckled black velvet

  to deep purple satin

  to beautiful pink silk.

  I’ve made it through the torturous night.

  My wall held.

  I kept him away.

  STAY

  I need to move, to heat my cold body.

  Pushing myself up, I peer at the ground,

  which still looks damp.

  I carefully slide down the rock,

  allowing one boot to touch the ground.

  It doesn’t sink in nearly as much as last night,

  so I put both feet down.

  My legs give out, and I stumble,

  my knees digging into the soaked silt,

  mud smothering and sanding and stinging my sores.

  I stand up, dizzy, spinning, leaning

  against the outcropping.

  I focus on putting one foot in front of the other,

  concentrate on taking step after step.

  My rubbery legs feel more steady with each movement.

  My breathing evens out. My heart slows its slamming.

  I stop.

  Should I instead walk to the Jeep?

  Break a window? Wait for help? Who would come?

  Too hot, no water, all supplies swept away.

  Walk to the main road?

  How far is it? Could I find the way?

  Too hot, no water, all supplies swept away.

  I look down the canyon in the direction of Dad

  making his way back to me right now

  I know.

  He would never leave without me,

  and I won’t leave without him.

  COLORS

  I find a small puddle in a hollow spot on a rock

  and lap up as much water as I can.

  Then I look up at the slice of sky

  and long to be in the sun again.

  The canyon looks different today.

  Lychen bursts like fireworks around me

  in different shades of green:

  lime and split pea and mint.

  The layers wobble and waver.

  It’s as though a small child

  ran through the canyon

  while I lay on the rock all night

  and colored the walls

  outside the lines with

  wild scribbles in

  deep, angry red crayon.

  STEPS

  I focus on taking one step at a time

  toward Dad.

  He’ll find me.

  He’s walking back to me right now,

  just as I’m walking to him.

  Then we’ll figure it all out together.

  Step, step, step.

  The air is warming.

  My steps are faster.

  My body is heating.

  I’m so thirsty.

  I stop at every puddle I find

  in the sunken spots on rocks.

  Each one seems smaller than the last.

  I climb over a large boulder

  blocking the narrow path

  then reach a broader opening,

  grateful for the space,

  wide enough to let in more light,

  wide enough for a flood-tattered ironwood tree,

  debris littering its broken branches,

  to grow from a seed blown down a long time ago.

  Step, step, step.

  I move around the tree

  and the canyon narrows again,

  shuts out the light.

  Step, step, step.

  Dad will find me soon.

  LOSS

  I see something in the distance,

  sticking out of the ground.

  As I near it, I find

  a piece of garbage,

  washed into the canyon

  from who knows where.

  An old plastic cup.

  A sign of human life.

  Garbage.

  But a cup can be useful.

  A cup can hold water.

  Lifting it out of the mud, I find it’s only

  part of a cup.

  I try to put it in my pocket,

  but it crumbles,

  brittle from the brutal heat.

  I wipe the pieces from my sore palms,

  and they flutter to the ground

  around a pile of broken shale.

  One shard of gray shale catches my eye,

  and I pick it up.

  It’s flat and sharp on one end.

  I run a finger along the razor-like edge.

  It sc
ratches me, draws a tiny amount of blood.

  I slip the rock into my back pocket.

  This stone knife could be useful

  down here in the canyon.

  I imagine myself using it

  to skin the hide from a kangaroo rat

  and snort at the thought.

  I move my hand to my front pocket,

  but the heart-shaped stone isn’t there.

  My eyes blur and my lip quivers

  and I want to crumble to the ground

  like the fluttering, brittle bits of broken cup.

  I wipe my eyes and bite my lip

  and stay standing.

  I don’t have time to get all

  bent out of shape over a lost rock.

  ENDLESS WALLS

  The light

  lowers

  down the wall,

  warming

  the canyon.

  How long have I been walking?

  It’s hard to tell when I can’t

  see the sun.

  It already feels like I’ve walked

  inches,

   feet,

   yards,

    miles,

    and

    miles.

  My steps quicken

  and my heart speeds with anticipation

  as I round every new corner,

  expecting Dad to appear.

  But all I find are more

  walls made of waves,

  like the water that carved them.

  DEADLY

  That sound. Effervescent.

  Sizzling. Like Dad frying

  sausage in the morning.

  Coiled. Head held high and back.

  Ready to spring, fill me with venom

  if I get too near.

  Tongue flicks over and over again,

  smelling me, figuring me out.

  A narrow tunnel of sunlight shines down

  into the canyon, cracking the silt

  under my feet and warming the snake.

  It’s also drying the last of my puddles

  and scorching my pale, sun-starved skin.

  It must be about noon.

  I pick up a stone from the canyon floor

  and toss it at the snake,

  which rattles its warning at me.

  But it doesn’t move.

  AWAY

  I am so, so tired.

  I am swaying on my feet.

  I sit down on a rock

  out of striking distance

  and study the snake.

  Looks like a diamondback

  but

  greenish tinge,

  fading diamond pattern,

  white rings on tail

  wider than black rings.

  It’s a Mojave.

  Deadly venomous.

  I have no choice

  but to wait it out.

  My head nods in exhaustion.

  The warmth is like a drug,

  dragging me under.

  I keep my boots

  on the canyon floor

  as I lean to the side

  and rest my head on the rock.

  The stone is warm against my cheek

  and arms, and I am instantly

  drifting,

  no longer concerned

  about the deadly snake in my way.

  I am gone, floating away,

  into the darkness of my mind,

  away to the place where he can find me.

  ANOTHER LIE

  You can be honest, Eleanor.

  Who is the Beast?

  Maybe you’re not listening,

  Or don’t want to listen, but I have

  No more to

  Say.

  The Beast is not

  Even

  Real.

  PANIC

  Booms

  always come first.

  Then the

  blood.

  I hear him.

  He’s catching up with me.

  Crunch.

  Crunch.

  Crunch.

  I startle awake.

  Jump off the rock,

  then stumble back,

  away from the rattling snake

  I’d so quickly forgotten.

  Do it now, Eleanor.

  Rewrite your nightmare.

  I can’t.

  I am spiraling,

  untethered and wild,

  like the whirlpools

  I spied in the flood.

  I am sure the Beast is coming,

  and the rattling of the snake

  has become chains,

  and the red of the canyon

  has become blood,

  and the shadows of the canyon

  have become death.

  Ground yourself, Eleanor.

  COPING

  Grounding techniques for

  coping with PTSD:

  Use your five senses.

  GROUNDING

  Where am I?

  In the canyon.

  What do I see?

  The snake, walls around me,

  dirt below me.

  What do I hear?

  The rattling.

  At home I’d turn on music,

  but here I speak out loud.

  I am here, in the canyon.

  What do I feel?

  I reach out and touch

  the canyon wall:

  rough, warm stone.

  I bend down and grab

  a handful of dirt,

  massage it

  between my hands.

  What do I smell?

  The desert:

  creosote, sage, and dust.

  What do I taste?

  At home, I keep

  a jar of chocolates

  in my room.

  I put one in my mouth

  and focus on the melting

  to keep me grounded

  in the here and now.

  In the canyon,

  I taste only the bitterness

  of my unbrushed mouth.

  Who is with me?

  No one but this snake.

  No one but this snake.

  No one but this snake.

  Are you likely to die in this situation?

  Yes.

  KEEP MOVING

  Move!

  I yell at the snake.

  Move, move, move!

  But it only rattles back at me.

  I need to keep moving,

  so I don’t fall back asleep,

  so I can find Dad.

  Move, move, move!

  But it will be me

  who will have to move.

  And so I run

  around the snake,

  but

  too quickly,

  too carelessly,

  too clumsily.

  It strikes

  at my ankles.

  I jump,

  stumble,

  crawl,

  just out

  of its reach.

  It is poised

  for another strike

  as I back away

  like a crab,

  then scramble

  to my feet

  and run away.

  NEEDLES

  My run-in with the snake has left me

  shaky, sweaty, dry-mouthed.

  I need water,

  but my precious puddles are gone.

  I spot a barrel cactus

  growing low enough for me to reach,

  run to it, study it,

  but I’m not sure what species it is.

  Dad taught me there’s

  only one kind

  that won’t make me violently sick.

  I pull out my sharp shale,

  attempt to pierce the cactus,

  but instead, the needles pierce me.

  I try to shave the needles off,

  but they don’t give.

  Raising my foot high, I kick at them.

  One needle pierces my boot,

  buries
itself in my heel.

  Stumbling back on my butt,

  I cry out in pain,

  then dig the needle out of my shoe.

  Standing again, I stare down the cactus.

  Did I really think I could open

  this tough, unyielding thing

  with only my stone knife?

  My eyes well with tears,

  but I wipe them away.

  Really, it’s for the best.

  I’m not sure what species it is,

  and that’s a mistake I shouldn’t make.

  DIGGING

  I have no other choice

  but to fall back to the ground,

  my knees in the mud,

  which already isn’t as wet

  as it was this morning.

  I

  push

  my

  hands

  into

  the

  cool

  ground.

  I dig down deep,

  throwing the wet dirt to the side.

  My long hair falls in my face,

  and I push my muddy hands through it

  over and over to keep it back.

  Why did I have to undo my ponytail?

  My fingernails are dark with mud,

  and I hear Mom’s voice.

  Are you growing watermelons in there?

  Save one for me, please.

  Mom loved watermelon.

  I think of Danielle

  as I dig and dig and dig.

  When we tried mud masks

  and got mud all over the bathroom,

  door handles, couch, and carpet.

  How we’d each written a word

  on each other’s foreheads,

  and then couldn’t stop laughing

  when we looked in the mirror and saw

  we’d both spelled out the same thing:

  POOP.

  Dad said we shared

  the same strange brain.

  But if that were true,

  we’d still be friends.

  I dig and I dig and I swipe

  hair from my face