Gold in the remaining space
between the window frame and the shy-of-completely-drawn drapeó
a shaft of sunlight and his squinting face.
Invisible dust juggled itself, visible in the light.
He ran his fingers through it as he did my hair.
The presence of his hand propelled the particles to new trajectories.
He told me dust is dead skin cells, loose follicles, shed pieces of ourselves
all spinning like little globes on brass rods. He told me
You donít need to be afraid after I began to cry.
And later when he called my name, said, shhhh, come to the window,
I ran tip-toed to be beside him. Two young elk picked through the rocky dirt,
unaware of their voyeurs, until one of us made a silent noise only the animals could hear.
Startled, they froze but didnít run because they had learned to trust
humans, gambled that we would not hurt them,
would not bury a bullet into their velvet, vulnerable sides.
fiction poetry "fact" photography