Dust
Someone spoke to me last night
told me the truth. Just a few words, but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor —
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn’t elated or frightened,
but simple rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window,
all bright and black wings,
and you’re just too tired to open it.
Look at me. I’m standing on a deck
in the middle of Oregon. There are
friends inside the house. It’s not my
house, you don’t know them.
They’re drinking and singing
and playing guitars. You love
this song, remember, “Ophelia,”
Boards on the windows, mail
by the door. I’m whispering
so they won’t think I’m crazy.
They don’t know me that well.
Where are you now? I feel stupid.
I’m talking to trees, to leaves
swarming on the black air, stars
blinking in and out of heart-
shaped shadows, to the moon, half-
lit and barren, stuck like an axe
between the branches. What are you
now? Air? Mist? Dust? Light?
What? Give me something. I have
to know where to send my voice.
A direction. An object. My love, it needs
a place to rest. Say anything. I’m listening.
I’m ready to believe. Even lies, I don’t care.
Say burning bush. Say stone. They’ve
stopped singing now and I really should go.
So tell me, quickly. It’s April. I’m
on Spring Street. That’s my gray car
in the driveway. They’re laughing
and dancing. Someone’s bound
to show up soon. I’m waving.
Give me a sign if you can see me.
I’m the only one here on my knees.
~ by Dorianne Laux
told me the truth. Just a few words, but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor —
not like food, sweet or sharp.
And I wasn’t elated or frightened,
but simple rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes —
God comes to your window,
all bright and black wings,
and you’re just too tired to open it.
Look at me. I’m standing on a deck
in the middle of Oregon. There are
friends inside the house. It’s not my
They’re drinking and singing
and playing guitars. You love
Boards on the windows, mail
by the door. I’m whispering
They don’t know me that well.
Where are you now? I feel stupid.
swarming on the black air, stars
blinking in and out of heart-
lit and barren, stuck like an axe
between the branches. What are you
What? Give me something. I have
to know where to send my voice.
a place to rest. Say anything. I’m listening.
I’m ready to believe. Even lies, I don’t care.
stopped singing now and I really should go.
So tell me, quickly. It’s April. I’m
in the driveway. They’re laughing
and dancing. Someone’s bound
Give me a sign if you can see me.
I’m the only one here on my knees.
