This house is full of dust.
It is doubtful it will ever be clean.
I sweep and sweep but
it penetrates every crack and crevice.
And I bend from the weight of it all.
At night, the dogs climb into bed
pressing against me until the warmth of our bodies is too much.
I fear I will lose one soon,
the older dog is not well.
And it breaks my heart, what’s left of it.
But I like the broken places.
The kaleidoscope of tangled glass and
spent shotgun shells. The dry carcass of
a forgotten world.
I find beauty here,
tucked beneath the surface.
Sheets pulled up tight and warm.
No walls.
And no ladders to climb.
No one else to please – I never could anyway.
Only the slow fade of orange into gray.
The sound of horses on hay.
A river of lights between here and there.
The clouds stretch and yawn across the sky
like silver ripples on a beach,
and somewhere a coyote howls.
And he owns this moment.
But the day, the day is mine.
In its light I go about building a future,
one I don’t yet know.
A stranger still to myself.
And she scares me at times.
I push her away and
hide behind locked gates,
walls of thorns.
I drink.
And I drink more.
But little by little
I find faith in her.
I find truth in
the soul of her.
And I know, if I can just sweep away all this damn dust I will be her.