DON’T ORDER THE TORTILLA SOUP

I trudged past orange plastic marigolds
drooping in the heat.
A key was taped beneath
a solar-powered gecko,
beady eyes watching me.
The front door groaned. 
I flipped the light switch—
nothing. 

My temporary home:
a furnished casita
left behind 
by a transfer student,
offered at the right price.

The living room smelled
like burnt popcorn
and sour cheese.
Dust rose from the red chili-print sofa
flanked by a cactus lamp.

A velvet Elvis hung crooked
on the wall.
I started humming “Don’t Be Cruel.”

My boxes were in storage 
until I found permanence
in this desert scrub.
One year to kill—
commuting to Phoenix
two days a week
in a lime green Kia Soul,
leased after a few margaritas. 

I opened the refrigerator.
One lemon on a rack,
a soy sauce packet
in the crisper,

and six different kinds of mustard.
A glittery jalapeno magnet
secured a well-used Tex-Mex menu 
with a warning in red:
“Don’t Order the Tortilla Soup!”

The bedroom was sparse—
a double window 
facing the mountains.
I lay down on a quilted bedspread.
Typed an alert in my phone:
“You don’t have to sleep 
on the left side anymore.”

And fell asleep on the right.

Laura DeHart Young is a queer poet and fiction author. Her poems have appeared in Thimble, Book of Matches, Does It Have Pockets?, The Loch Raven Review, and elsewhere. Her chapbook, Burnt Toast and Benedictions, was published in 2025. Laura’s seven books of fiction were published with Naiad Press and Bella Books.