ode to my house dust

in my ancestors’ house, dead, disembodied,

staring at my corpse on white bedsheets, i want

to pretend that i never happened. so, dust,

shroud my face, dry my mouth and swim

in my open, empty glazed eyes. peel flesh

sepulchral, pale and flaking. teach my dandruff

your soft moth patterns.

deterred by slight brown breath,

and a wife’s withered, meticulous hands, keep

your distance no longer, as my pores and or-

-ifices are all prostrate and silent. now,

no longer eddied by supercutaneous heat or sweat,

pretend with me before, whisked to the grave,

dust cannot be mingled.

during death, i realized, in the pocked light

you practiced as planets with angels, who

practiced god with parts of me—shattered hair and eyelashes.

from dust to dust, the angels laughed.

death happens only after the body is erased, they laughed,

as you all practiced, dust, i realized you were my ancestors’ bodies.

now, amidst the white post-humous powder,

the whole swirling fragmented galaxy, the dried d.n.a of centuries,

i welcome all of you dead, dancing ancestors

to laugh with the angels, mingle with me, and pretend we never happened.