who is an appropriate subject of repression usually
widen to include domestic dissenters.

Dust

Either way, it?s a serious escalation of repression against
a totally nonviolent Israeli peace movement. El

 

Susan Lz'twack

Constantly reincarnating itself,
it sits on the shelf

where a still parade

of greeting cards offers it
unending praise.

Religiously self-satis?ed,

it sinks into the frying pan
like a lost tribe of spices,
settles on silk lampshades

and communes with common drains.
It caresses the bedsheets,

and whole dunes are evolving
underneath the mattress,
burying me softly

in dusty dreams.

I am ?ve at Revere Beach,

caked in black sand,

while my brother towers over me,
a sister pie about to be

basted by the tide, baked

by the stark New England sun
and left for the child-crunching ?ies.
Have mercy! I confess!

I am not one of the Elect.

We came from the Old Country
and swept into eastern ports

only to spread west,

dust snowballing

on the soles of our feet,

tucked behind our ears,

stuck between our teeth.

It landed where we landed,
architects of survival,

immigrants like us.

I am the messiah at eight,

but no alchemist.

I do not put my faith

in mere, ephemeral ?akes.

I simply allow them to coexist.

I bring home the smelly, half-eaten
shells to stink up the stairs

so the neighbors talk.

I don?t dust the bottoms, or even
the tops of the chairs every day
or?God forbid?once a week.

14 TIKKUN VOL. 4, N0. 4

I permit base elements to accumulate,
while sun streams in the picture window,
pointing its accusing rays.

Only after threats of deprivation

or death, do I unlovingly erase

the weekly portion of family history.
This is where I write my name,

where my toes dip, and my ?ngertips
mark their delible entry.

I rub each table leg like a genie,
recite the domestic slave

blessing, and wait.

It takes all morning to do the den.
To ?nish off the house would require
the lifetimes of our pets,

and I am led to ?ick-of-the-rag,
guerrilla tactics, until

a dirty turncoat?but free at last,
I wave the white rag

and embrace the birthright

of nomadic carelessness.

For I know in my exhausted heart,
if dust is useless, I am useless;
planting ?owers I am digging

an early grave, cavorting

in the same, seamy earth

I was taught to eradicate,
becoming Dustmagus,

dusty-eyed lover, dust-ridden
scapegoat of the family?s break
with the Bible?s very first page.

Dear God, who gives us our daily dust,
admit to having created

the only skin we accept

to cover our layers of thin,

unrelenting consciousness.

Remember when dust fell from the sky
and our belief that it was manna

saved us from the hunger

of self-righteousness, for a while.