Dust Storm

It was supposed to be the day I expressed affection but we had fought the night /before. Coming home from church. About catching a break of some sort. I was /driving. We were turning onto our street. Yelling. He may have been crying. Outside / wind. From El Paso, it began, made its way down I-20, gathering tumbleweeds into /its arms, scooping children’s toys into its teeth. It didn’t mind what, I suppose, but / particularly dust, until it was itself a cloud. Willing to become a body that wasn’t / anything in particular, just bits of everything and everyone. The world was a / windstorm. Into the next day, driving, again. It kept rolling, into the bones of / everyone it brought with it cold. The brown of the dress. It’s body, wind, the whirl / turned. Like the Greeks, we screamed into each other’s throats until the world / became the fight. But how beautiful, the roar of it to fall in love with everything like / freeing the clothesline of the just-departed.

20121219-duststorm-fromplane

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One response to “Dust Storm

  1. Monte

    Makes me think of one of my favorites writers (other than you Shannon), and one of his more famous passages from his greatest novel (and one of the greatest novels of the 20th Century):

    “They rode out on the north road as would parties bound for El Paso but before they were even quite out of sight of the city they had turned their tragic mounts to the west and they rode infatuate and half fond toward the red demise of that day, toward the evening lands and the distant pandemonium of the sun.”

    ― Cormac McCarthy, “Blood Meridian”

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