Desert Flower
The final poem in Korina Iribe's poetry series; Desert Flower: An Undocumented Girlhood.
This week we conclude Korina Iribe’s Poetry series; Desert Flower: An Undocumented Girlhood. We are so grateful to have been able to share this beautiful collection of poems about memory, migration and undocumented girlhood.
If you haven’t already, you can read the first two poems of the series below:
Author’s Final Thoughts
I didn’t begin this project knowing exactly what I was going to write about. The series emerged organically as I returned to memories of my childhood and girlhood, to the unique experience of growing up undocumented, as a girl, in the Sonoran Desert. As I wrote, I began to see how deeply interconnected those parts of myself were: the desert, immigration, girlhood, memory, survival, tenderness. All of it lived inside of me and shaped me throughout my formative years. Writing this series became an act of healing, a way to explore my upbringing and reconnect with the landscapes and emotions that formed me. It all led me to this final poem, Desert Flower, named after the series itself.
Ironically, the day after finishing it, I visited the Audubon for the first time during daylight hours. Walking through the gardens, I found myself transported back to my grandmother’s house. I saw so many of the same symbols and images I had written about in these poems: desert plants, shade, stillness, memory. It felt like a quiet confirmation from the universe, from God, from something larger than myself, that I had written what needed to be written. I’m deeply grateful for the opportunity to share this work, and I hope that somewhere within these poems, readers were able to recognize parts of themselves too.
Desert Flower
Korina Iribe
I used to dig for earthworms, sit under the schoolyard tree, pluck ’em out one by one, gather ’em up in wiggling piles. Manitas chiquitas the color of sand.
During spring, my search for ladybugs began. My body lay flat against the grass, attempting to catch the coolness of the earth. Held ’em on my fingers, hands always outstretched, reaching for the sun.
My nana lived by the border, in a place called Amado, which means loved. The Sonoran Desert was her backyard. Some days I’d wake before the sun, still sleepy and barefoot. I’d make plans to catch a jackrabbit.
Siempre sabía cuándo venía la lluvia. Haboobs sweeping dust for miles, carrying the smell of creosote and migrant dreams. When the drops would fall, the saguaros would catch them because they knew there would be drier days.
I’d spend hours alone in her garden, the chollas and rattlesnakes my protectors. One day, I saw a caterpillar. The next day, it had formed and hidden itself inside a cocoon. Soon after, it reemerged as a butterfly. I had never seen anything like it. After its time in solitude, God had given it wings.
My little heart yearned to be part of this place, like the beautiful desert flowers who survived the deadliest heat, who grew amongst the thorns of the cactus.
I longed to be what the desert already knew I had been all along.
Propina
We are so incredibly grateful for Korina’s beautiful poetry series and for the work that she does.
An offering from Korina:
If this series moved you, I invite you to visit the Nina Mason Pulliam Rio Salado Audubon Center in South Phoenix. It’s a beautiful space in the middle of the city to reconnect with the desert, with memory, and maybe even with yourself one last time. You can find public visiting information through Audubon Southwest.
We’ll see you next week.