The Book of Dust
Rhonda Melanson
she writes
gritty thoughts on
sandpaper tongue,
a passionless french
kiss, ashamed for the
effort, fulcrum crashing
in deliberate inertia
grime on the windshields
of her blinders, carving
a niche of dishonesty in
her pumpkin face where
stubby candle has gone out
safe, dry sand sifts
invisibility cloak over
shy anger, letting it
soften with the neutral
tides
and ride her blackened toes.