Mesquite (Mə skēt)

Karen Cline-Tardiff

July 5, 2026

1. A desert blessing

Low sun in the sky, slipping behind El Capitan,

dust swirls around late-arriving kit fox, lured

by the smoky smell of burning mesquite, unsure

whether to flee from imminent sweeping fires or

 feast on leftovers near the ring of sweating human.

2. A city of contradiction

Pulling into a never-ending broken parking lot full of 

LoneStar Editions with gleaming BigTex hauling trailers,

gold-shod ponies bred to go fast, turn tight, comes a

long white truck hauling rusted metal on worn rubber,

a solid horse with creaking tack and unseen gumption,

sporting a dream to win enough gas to get back home.

3. A medicine

There is no water to swallow a pill, no doctor to prescribe one,

but the pod hangs within reach of all, the beans tucked inside;

the men and women drink from the bean, eat the bean,

bake with the bean, are nourished with the deep knowledge

the tree has a taproot which will point the way to water.

Karen Cline-Tardiff has been writing as long as she could hold a pen. She is the author of the chapbook “Raccoon.” Her works have appeared in several anthologies and journals, both online and in print. She stays up too late and snoozes her alarm past any reasonable time. She is founder and Editor-in-Chief of Gnashing Teeth Publishing.