Writings by: Cheyenne Taylor

So all I have are snatches of a dream I can’t remember: roads drawn as if by fingers in the dust, hills with sun-stiff peaks.  Escape and tell the story that you know, some ancestor must have said, but no one did. I’m still not sure if anyone remembers it;…

Old men sing themselves to sunstroke in idling vans, their grown children inside buying out of season vegetables. We treat our youth like succulents on blistered windowsills, the memory of sustenance  enough for us. We keep flattening the dust, the way a highway grinds the shade to pulp, a longitude…

I have just enough of instinct left to know these signs of rain: an insect too routine for memory flits sideways; a squirrel reports his body’s arc into the greasy breeze between a low stone wall and a shade tree. The dish-pale sink of sky sucks out a lottery of…