Come tell me why I should let you wash my feet. The rivers have gone dry again, my mouth dry again, your heart, dry again. Like firewood, like splinters in my palm, the crackle and drift of sounds. My mother was a dry woman, living in dust and calling it a desert. But I never saw a cactus or a rattlesnake in those days. Just dust, as far as the eye could see. It covered everything in those days, the dust of old dreams, hidden in old chests she liked to collect. Old timepieces some called hearts, sputtering muscles moldering in the attic. So come tell me why I should let you near me at all. I have this dust in my diet, in my molecules, she was swallowing dirt while I was drowning inside her. She was an angel of asphalt, breathing in empty pieces of old sunlight, braiding dandelions into my infant memories. Now I carry the secrets of sand, smoke, smog and sulfur and I whisper them hoarsely to these sleeping sheets. I have been a stranger, I have been the danger, I have eaten quicksand and bled in opals. Your father has a mine in Australia where he grows stones of red and cream, you sent me a handful in a dream. Come tell me why I should let you damage my unread bones with your sterile shadows of pristine. I’m not ready to come clean.
Created: Aug 17, 2012seashelllz Document Media