Tamara Panici

The dust really believes it knows us. The blanket of her

 

orange breathiness wraps around each finger and tooth.

 

We are sick children; the dust, our dying mother. 

 

It’s so hot, everything sticks to everything.

 

Even the woodpeckers are glued to the sky. The copperheads, 

 

to the chipping driveway, melting before each noon.

 

We’ve had our windows and blinds closed tight for 

 

days, maybe weeks. Now the sun wants us gone.

 

Look at this film! All this pollution!—cry the neighbors 

 

who know nothing about the sun’s misery. They point up

 

towards the dirty red. They point up towards the hole

 

where our star should be. They shield their eyes out of

 

habit. I’m a terrible neighbor. I say, Is there a fire somewhere? 

 

knowing there’s no fire. The dust lets herself sleep soundly

 

on our houses and in our chicken coops. You could live

 

anywhere, I say to the sun. Why so far? Blink fast enough:

 

you’ll see bright pops of electricity against the darkness

 

of your own body. Open your eyes. The light that once 

 

flooded us is being swallowed elsewhere, glint by glint.