Dawn to Dusk to Dust

Amanda Holstien

Remember the smoke filled room where your mother died,

your father left,
and your brother cried.
The fire place
and the gay parade.
When your brother came out,
he was ashamed.

You crawled on all fours
to redeem the poor,
but your husband was left
with sweeping the floors.

In honor of my father’s name,
I’ll sail the seas,
or I’ll die in shame.
Like the many men that came before us,
we’ll live as dirt and we’ll die as dust.
Your father exclaimed,
“I’m not the same!
I’m keeping my name,
but the rest of me must change.”

Michael rowed his boat ashore
but no one knew him anymore.

Cousin John’s first wife died,
in the bathtub on Easter night.
Just like the dove,
came down from above,
he said, “This is my wife,
and with her, I’ve had enough.”

Matthew, Mark, Peter and Paul,
Jesus is a brother to all.
But don’t turn around
or you’ll turn to salt,
though Sodom and Gomorrah was not your fault.
When the flames came around
to burn up the town,
your family
was nowhere to be found.

 
 

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Archives: Spring 2010.