Abbie Kiefer

Prayer with Dust

that laces my weeping

fig                 the base-

board’s jut                 fussy spindles on the stair-

case                & neglected edges 

of each tread—                

this dust                 

partly us:                

skin sloughed from friction

of touch                plus pollen                cotton 

culled from our socks                

& the wood-

stove’s hushed cinder—                our ashes

lulled to dust 

that will settle                 resettle                

regard-

less—               

so when it comes to rest                 

on my running

shoes                loved 

books                my mother’s 

mother’s china cups               exactingly formed 

from clay 

and bone dust—                may there be 

a settling

up                a peace-

making                even 

as I shush 

shush my hands—                unable to help

it—                brushing 

back what I can—

Back to Issue XIV…