The air is ragged in the room, fanned
only by her hands; the smell of alcohol
rises from lipstick-bitten cups. Behind
the desk, the radio whirs a signal,
dizzy with war-talk and we listen, lazily
tracing patterns in spilt sugar.
The sun quivers in the window, a water-
color that runs to water. A philosophy
book on the table—Heidegger—gathers dust.
To remain, to dwell, to till the earth— fuck me.
I see the dust collecting as a metaphor
for our dwelling—for our being—in this country
or otherwise. Sweat trickles down her
neck and she sways, listening now to Blonde
on Blonde: she dwells in the now, desires
just to make a few footprints in its sand.
The toil of her fingers betrays
her; she is from ground, builds life from ground, and to ground
she’ll return. In the sugar, she’s written Milky Way,
thinks she’s made of stars, refuses creation as sin
born from dust and rib and an apple-filled sigh.
