Dust

Here under the shadow of this carnelian rock,

under the dead laurel tree

is a handful of dust.

There is no water.

I have no choice but to harvest honey;

these foolish men lament the rocks, dust, and despair

they brought onto my page, stealing my nectar,

stealing my soul, cursing me

for birthing lilacs out of the barren land,

fusing concupiscence and nostalgia

into something they don’t understand.

No, these dead poets will not show me fear.

Fear does not live in a handful of dust;

fear lives in the minds of men

and the bodies of women.

These men do not know my shadow,

ascending or descending

at dawn or at dusk;

they know only the chaos of the images

they left broken at my feet, telling me

to make it whole.

These dead men know nothing of fear,

nothing of love, nothing of pain,

else they would not hold up their puny fists

clutching dust, lying to me,

claiming they know.

I have my secret honey and pomegranates

and need no water.

I will show them fear.

They can keep their dust.