Dust
My people have always known dust.
They brought it in boxes.
Across trails covered in tears.
To red dirt and black oily clay.
They wore it in their clothes,
and watched it rise from their feet.
Watched it sparkle like stars in the sunlight around them.
They weaned their children on dust.
They let dust make homes in their faces.
Surrounded with moats of worry.
They lay down with dust.
They lay close to one another and whispered,
damn this dust,
dust,
dust.
Before turning to dust.
E.G. Maynard.
46 & 2.
3.
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