Stardust

There were once less vibrant goddesses,
their white glowing forms cloaked
in dust and chunks of rock,
still warm from the kiln.

This was before the invention of hue,
before the creation of color,
when stone shrouds were all the rage
and ice clouds were a favorite accessory.

I was there, unformed and silent,
racing through voids,
watching as dancing turned nothing
into something,
great giants who each took in many
multitudes who will never know
what it is to be born
and reborn,
to be torn apart,
rebuilt,
to exist so briefly
and so infinitely.

Now the colors are vivid,
garish at times.
We are all part of one goddess or another,
limbs and organs,
clouds of debris clinging to their bodies.

Look at my feet;
I’m dancing.
Look at my feet;
I’m dancing.
Look at my feet;
I’m dancing.

Notes

Written 5 December 2019 & 27 January 2020 Payne County, Oklahoma

Brian Fuchs, “Stardust” from Scissor-tailed Flycatcher (Scissortail Press, 2020)