The Hayloft
The rickety hayloft door,
like terrible drumming
against its tattered track,
was our barrier between
the thunderous swarm
and blusterous squall.
The night was our journey.
Two of us could move
hay bales from stack
to stack to form a fort
of towers, a malleable
playground to jump
from apex to cavern
at leisure. My cousin,
teetering unbalanced
atop the tallest tower fell
unto the steely floor,
scaring the cows beneath,
and his brow was torn
by the exposed nail,
original and rusted,
he cried and we ran
up the dirt path
to our homes and parents
like wounded soldiers.
Dust
From shelves I wipe
the enigmatic house dust
rumored to be composed
of mostly human skin.
One warm lamp is on,
though the furnace
warms me, and her,
and the two ladybugs
who died snuggling
where wall and ceiling kiss.
This house is manufactured
dust which will crumble.
My body is the same
though may take that fate first.
The slushy snow vanishes
onto pavement
and the road reflects
lights like love does fear,
and I reminisce:
the Bible claims
we will return to dust
from which we came.
And I claim we will rebuild
to a new body, recycled
renewed, and ready
to destroy again.
–Maxwell Redder