The Sonoran

So, I guess when I said that I had shallow roots, I meant like the roots of a cactus. Sparse, spread out and shallow, but present none-the-less. Adapted to the drought, willing to survive on so little; transplanted to a region too saturated to struggle through. A case of too much too soon, and on and on. I couldn’t possibly suck it up and store it all properly. Even if I could absorb it all, swelling to my fill, the roots!—My roots! Their clinging, oh their pitiful grasp, it’s never enough the keep a giant upright. Top-heavy and easily toppled, poached for my skeleton, to be bleached and sold to sit in a room. I am not an addition, I’m a piece contributing to a theme. Decorative, see? It’s not the meat they’re after, it’s the eyelets revealed after the kill.