Sunday, February 5, 2012

Dust to Dust


There are days when world is a whirling dervish.
Isn’t that pretty, whirling dervish?
Infinite angels clasping hands, dancing the hora.

You see the golden sandals, gold-leafed wings.
You hear the daffodils springing from the sweat drops.
You feel the crystal-morphed intoxication of the dance.

Some days the world is just a tornado.
Connected to both the earth and the clouds,
it is the dark link between us and why, God?

I think about the dust.

The symbol of the embrace is a generous step here.
We touch lightly. There is no crushing joy in it.
Our bones are the drowsy survivors of a 50-year-cyclone.

I think about the dust.

The ribs in his back feel like they are disintegrating.
In that brief moment when my hands graze his ribs,
I feel the hollows and I wonder if he wants to die.

I think about the dust.

Sometimes I imagine he is a mummy.
I imagine the bones in his back are the most resilient.
These are the bones that have lasted the longest.

I think about the dust.

I wonder if his father’s ribs are likewise hollow,
the man who made his 8-year-old granddaughter
get a switch off the willow tree for whistling.

I think about the dust.

You. I wonder if your bones can stand it.
When the twister drags us into that atmosphere,
will you clasp hands with angels?

I think about the dust. 

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