by Dorianne Laux
Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth. Just a few words,
but I recognized it.
I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.
Now, I remember only the flavor–
not like food, sweet or sharp.
More like a fine powder, like dust.
And I wasn’t elated or frightened,
but simply rapt, aware.
That’s how it is sometimes–
God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you’re just too tired to open it.
Dorianne Laux began writing poetry in earnest when she moved to Berkeley, California. Among her awards are a Pushcart Prize, a Fellowship from the National Endowment of the Arts, and a Guggenheim Fellowship. With a number of books to her credit, Laux is currently a professor of creative writing at the University of Oregon.
Editor’s Note: Dorianne Laux has been featured on As It Ought To Be before, but a good poet should be celebrated, and often. Some poems simply ring true to you in both their language and their message. I find this phenomenon occurring with acute regularity when I read through a book of Dorianne Laux’s poetry. I couldn’t get twenty pages into What We Carry without being strongly torn between two poems to feature on today’s series. The poem that competed with “Dust” is “Aphasia.” Read it here.