P O E T R Y
Dust
MICHAEL HETTICH
W
HEN she says we are filled with water , like coffee or rain , as though to remind me of something she thinks I should already know , I wonder
how rain , which is water falling , can be said to be filled with what it is , which is water . She tells me I ’ m forgetting about dust , which is what we are
when we take away the water . And water never dies , she says then , or stops returning to itself in the ocean , in the sky , in lakes and rivers
and snowfall — in our eyes for that matter , and in our bodies : The sweet water of love she sings , pouring the dark tea , as we talk of other things :
the age of this air we ’ re breathing , who might have breathed it before us , as the fragrances of henna and jasmine that hang in our garden — after
days of rain — sneak in through the cracks in our windows and doors , until the whole room is vivid with the spaces between things , through which we might escape .
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