Dust

By Finn Wylie

my grandfather went to the big city the summer
he and my grandmother were engaged to marry
worked digging subway tunnels
dark work he liked to say dark work but it got me places
my grandmother followed and they had children
I knew them when they gardened together
though my grandfather was allergic to most flowers
but he had a theory about that:
as insects carry pollen, so did he, breathing it in
then sneezing it out everywhere he went
making the world bright
as a child I observed them keenly
their deep acquaintance with their skin
they occupied motion, pedaling through the day
so efficiently that when they died
even dust knew where to fall

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Finn Wylie has studied writing at Vancouver Island University. She is currently composing poems in her head while planting trees in northern B.C., then writing them down at night by the fire, if she doesn't fall asleep first. "Dust" is her first publication. A short non-fiction piece is forthcoming in Geist Magazine. Find her on Twitter: @wyliefinn.