The Psalmist, After Johnny Cash's "Oh Bury Me Not"
What is found in a mote of dust afloat in a shaft
of light coming through an abandoned house's
broken window? A cracked dirty floor, a woman
with her back turned to the door, my grandmother
perhaps, working on the evening's meal, a toad
in the cool, damp spot by where my grandfather
wiped his mud-caked boots by the door, a machete
blade rusted like this thought of a dying man,
a pistol in his hands, the way my mother claims
my father's father went down, or Martí, Cuba's
martyred leader, a man with a weakness for pretty
women and poetry. In the church of bliss, the book
closes itself against the ravages of a crow trapped
in fire. Here is Jesus, man of earth and fire, water
for eyes. In his bosom aches a heart, in his guitar
the history of how a man travels, never coming back
to where he started. My father always claimed he wanted
to be buried back home. How we all return?
In black dust, a mote sifting free in the fading light.