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.