James A. Jordan
After it lands on my face,
eyelashes sweeping left then right
with a smell that almost
could be nothing
if I did not stop to call it by name:
last year’s topsoil
where tobacco took root,
was slashed, then had its bones left
The old crop, old land—markings
from small game and coyote pups
blended together in dry skin cuts
all along my hand.
As it blows away, I am remains.
Return to Fall 2015 Table of Contents