The doors of the van expand, open-mouthed to the
dunes, and her legs hang out the sides.
Attached to her calves were feet encased in sand.
Itching to be rid of the saltiness, she scans the seats
for the salvation that comes in pint-sized Aquafina.

Half-moons of soft plastic wrap from the water bottle packaging
lay shredded, littering the floor surrounding my own feet.
Plastic pulled apart by desperate fingers, reaching to the bottles inside.
As I rub a small grain from my left eye,
a salty intruder, she pulls a water bottle from the
now-empty package. Ten days ago there were ten.

Pouring the water over her ankles, she rubs away the sand,
the itching, the prison, what had been enveloping her feet in a soft beige cast.
She grimaces “there is nothing I hate more than
this feeling” and I believe her, glancing at the price tag
on one plastic half-moon and the filtered water rivers
inching through the dust
in woven paths through the parking lot.