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Dust Over Terror and Savory Bounty
Words by Keith Moul
Image by Gretchen Gales
The dark plain hides the wind’s wreckage from us, but it
Bulled through last spring in fanned light, a sick yellow.
Human noses remember immersions from middle earth.
Tomorrow we’ll deal with the loss of today’s familiar.
The baby twists around to the lightning,
Then shrieks after each thunder crack.
Holidays always marked by wind, no set direction,
Family assembled, but at separate windows to watch,
While aware of the meal cooking nicely in the kitchen:
Aromatic smoke barely touches nostrils before escape.
Dust settles on the baby twisting to lightning;
She shrieks terror at every crack of thunder.
We move to avoid suspicion of fear as a deciding motive; we
Imagine walking with tortoises, running with hares, working
A midnight shift, but never playing it so cagey with a pinch
Of tribal vengeance, the salve of hurting, even dying, for others.
Comfort the rigid uncle at the hearthstone, and the cousins too.
The family’s legacy to its children is adjustment to a hard life;
We are not cruel to let them mature before an ancient shining.
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