James A. Jordan

After it lands on my face,
a thousand
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
to brown.

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.

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