After the Dust Storm (Poem)

Carry on, but carry the zero.

Make note of the debits

trailing a receipt,

in the twisted

bed sheets,

the limbs entwined,

the cost of our business branded

on skin,

that burns to our bones.

Wave it away,

with a flick of your wrist,

like the heartland farmer,

waved away the black clouds,

even as his children and cows

coughed up dust the color of pitch.

Has our dust settled?

Memory lost,

or sold,

or tucked haphazard in old black books,

your name a debt due to a man

in a black hat who always collects.

A farm we mortgaged when the cloud came.

Nothing here to see,

all that dust,

and there's a fine silt

on everything,

from the kitchen table

to the coverlet on the brass double bed.

And, somewhere across a divide,

like the grand canyon, a desperation echoes,

like the lone coyote howl reverberating over the miles.

With teeth clenched into growls,

we've left this desert full of traps, and

landmines.

And as the sun rises

over carcasses,

we'll see those lies

covered in still dirt.

And your hand was always wet,

with that line of blue blood,

a vein of regret we followed to what we

both saw as an end, one understanding,

finally,

a glass suddenly made clear.

So leave me to my crystal clear

clink,

the burning scotch,

the rain,

wet on my bare feet, petrichor hanging,

like moss, from my hair.

Leave me the farmhouse, stained

black,

the fields darkening

as the rain finally falls.

Here, the dust has settled.

And I can sweep away the darkness.

And hang out the laundry,

on a line,

under sunshine and blue sky.

Throw open the windows,

and set about

to bleach those lace curtains you

touched with tar colored hands

last time your shadow darkened my door.

I'll air out the farmstead,

with a breeze,

like truth,

and beat the foul dust from every rug,

every blanket,

every pillow,

from every nook and cranny.

And plant those seeds I've been holding in my hand all this time,

and cultivate a garden of a different sort of victory,

from the deep, dark, soil underneath.

And I will let the seedling gulp at my spring,

full up.

Here,

the water washes clean and clear,

not grey.

Here,

the days are a house made whole.

Here,

the dust has settled.

Here,

the rain falls.

bvk, 2020.