an evening haboob

by theuglyearring

From the living room window, we watched
the storm, and the palms bent
in lust of rain.

Instead, sand and ash came,
an apocalyptic cloud
(as they called it).

The house teetered,
the pantry door swung open.

They remained near me
as you sat in candlelight,
strumming – the howling wind.
Dust fell on the unwashed bowls
and into the simmering sauce.

I tasted it.

This is how it would appear
the next morning:

Little M would have a mark
on her back.  And our fingerprints,
having written the moment
in the dust, would wipe
the counters clean.

image:
from Joy Walker’s exhibition Chanced at MKG127, Toronto.
via: stopping off place

Advertisements