Silts against the windows, smothers
the roses--
How could this be what
we are made of?
silica, commonest
element of the earth's crust--it flies
driven into the pores of our old house.
Devil on the horizon,
our first and last promise,
ashes to ashes, grit, jailer
of the housewife, the thing itself and its removal,
curtain
of its own making, swept
in from the fields,
"the most fertile soil in America," and yet
the farmers burn.
Smoke rolls through town,
night-blind at noon.

Our lace curtains float in the tub, and the years grime
sinks away,
as my sister sank away,
sank into herself and died,
then we honored her request to be burned.
Imagine her mingled
with woolly beasts, or suspended
and circling the earth,

fine powder of commotion.
Clay plus breath once meant life.
Now the breeze fills
her empty dress
that hangs
lightly in the closet
gathering dust.

And the dirty joke. This earth,
this fertility comes
to nothing
on the windowsill
or the curtains.
We are deceived, motes
thrown in our eyes.
Grain of night,
grit under
hand and foot
grinds the sleeping globe
and we are
lulled into following
our traces home.

- Linda Andrews