Dust

Sometimes a season grows heavy
with thorns. Sometimes light—
a grey plush of ground bone tipped
from a Dixie Cup. At the farm,
we carry fog in our hair,
on our skin, in units of uncertainty.
Thistle flowers weigh against
a spider’s work, split
by passing thighs. More beautiful
than fear, more soft-bodied
than amazement, we are permitted,
once, to touch the ash.
Our throats worn with gasps
of grief, the wound, the fleeting
breath of witness. Surrounded
by speckled earth, it doesn’t matter
what you believe: this was—is
a body. First leaf in the shade
of a still-full tree.
Season of ash, of landscapes split
by tears, we touch the dust
to which we are promised together,
alone, the fields we are owed
gleaming, curled leaves
and pearled legs gleaming, flecks
of dust and threads of light
stitching our still feet to the earth.

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Samuel Burt is a poet and artist from Grinnell, Iowa. A 2022 winner of the AWP’s Intro Journals Project, Sam’s work has been featured in Salt Hill, Colorado Review, Ghost City Review, and The Journal. Sam is a recent graduate of BGSU’s poetry MFA and serves as a reader for Palette Poetry. You can find him on Twitter @samburt_burt