You See Everything Starts With Dust
Fourteen months ago
you were naked – except
for one sock and your crooked
glasses – lying with me
on a musty mattress –
the bridge of my nose
in the crook of your neck.
I could feel your eyes glazing
over as you muttered wildly:
What is life? Why is
time? Who is God? When
Is love? Where is hell?
We wove a constellation of
mysteries across entangled
limbs, heavy breasts,
pungent feet, calloused
hands, sour tongue until
your fiery breath found my ear,
filling it with hot talk for answers:
You see, everything starts with dust. You and I, we, us – we started with dust.
The dust- the teensy things- they blow away into the soil, the sea, into the air
that we breathe. The dust – those particles – are dispersed over farmland,
over sand in the desert, are dissolved into the Yangtze, the Rhine, the Red Sea,
the pond in Iowa. They are inhaled through nostrils of oxen, of wolves, of your brother.
Each particle has its moment where it matters most – maybe for one thousand years
or maybe for a split second. Not in the long and complicated scheme of things
(things being the universe for all eternity). The soil and sand are blown away, the
oceans dry up, the rivers dry up. The oxen, the wolf, your brother – they die.
Dust. Particles. Recycling always.
So are we. So is the synchronization of our hearts’ rhythmic beat. During its season,
it burns bright and wild. But it will be dried up, blown away, or dead before too long.
Fire begets dust and there is a truth we don’t want to admit: dust we will remain.
Morgan Townes writes poetry and fiction in the beautiful Portland, Oregon. She is originally from the Appalachian Mountains in Virginia, where a piece of her heart still dwells. When not writing, she can be found in a coffee shop with a good book or hiking in the Pacific Northwest.