Dust

For me,
It happened after the soft bud
Dried and cracked.
There was disorientation first
And an aching for real hunger.
All I knew was spring
With its promise, fame and renown.
All I knew was tastes.

I saw a face.
Its eyes were rapt like mirrors,
Its lips wet and thin.
There were thoughts of bread
So I ate them.
There were pictures of wholeness there.
I copied them, wrote on them,
Painted them over with hopes.

It was my father's voice in the thoughts,
My mother's image in the pictures.
I had never seen nor heard
Until that face came into me.


For me,
It was like a dry flower that breaks.
The face was a lie for the sake of truth,
The lie you have to thank
When you learn it saves you,
When you learn it makes you.
It is the lie that you are beautiful when you are not,
Which is forgiveness.

The face becomes a god,
Letting it show:
The flower is dead.
It was always dead.
This is important to remember.
When you forget,
It takes everything from you.

We want to celebrate what we have known,
But what we have known is slavery.


For me,
It has to be told again and again.
I might say I am not,
But I am beautiful.
The bud is crushed,
But cannot be restored by slavery.

In freedom
One begins to hear the lies
Which are everywhere.
I have been pulling my brain
Out my ears.
There is bleeding.
There is agony.

If this dry, perfect dust can be valued,
Then existence has done it
With flowers,
With skin.

For me
There is one day that matters,
One face and one voice.
I am the mirror
To tell you the lie
That can save you.