FROM THE DUST Jake Dunn
The tiny brick house, the big red door. The staggered glass panes; stair steps going up, down. My brother and I—children— standing in the flood of eight-minute old light, pouring through the window flume spilling warm puddles of spent light to the clean swept hardwood. The tiny flecks that escape the dust pan, rising up like fool’s gold, in the sun streams, or handfuls of sprinkled ash, or burnout galaxies, coming alive, floating, swirling, behind the current of our mother’s broom. The moths of light briefly alive, slowly dancing through the scent of orange oil and yellow shadows. Falling somewhere between the creak of floorboards and the dust of old rooms, wondering where it all comes from, and where it goes when wiped away.