No Questions Asked

The dust was dust, but it moved
in the guise of grasshoppers.
The dust filled an empty coke-a-cola bottle.
An old, greenish glass bottle
with the lettering stripped
by other self-motivated anti-corporate dust.

The high priestess of the desert
walked in the footprints of a coyote.
She wore disagreement as a colorful garment.
She wore sandals with bells tied to the straps.

The dust heard her arriving
near their new bottle residence
and knew her own dust
slowly entered the air exiting her backbone
as a processional through a gate.

The high priestess of the desert
drank some water from a canteen.
The water in the canteen replaced her lost sweat.
Her dust remained lost to her.

The dust remained dust
and accepted its new companions.
Dust released from the high priestess of the desert
joined the dry ocean bed of relatives
even though they carried no crust of abandoned salt.

The high priestess of the desert
laid down on a spot exactly six feet above
the bones of an ancient dolphin
that swam the wrong direction as the ocean died.

The dust was dust, but it moved
in the guise of grasshoppers.
It gathered in the folds of the priestess’ clothes.
The dust believed she surrendered.
The dust welcomed her home.


copyright © 2016 Kenneth P. Gurney

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