DustBy Finn Wylie
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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 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.
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