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Dust Bunnies

by Tracy Sopko

Dust isn’t so hard to come by in the South.
What with so many sources:
The powdered sugar remnants of primordial bodies,
The sun-burnt flaking paint of seven thousand and thirty two
Condemned once-homes,
And the equally scorched and peeling remnants of once-people,
There is enough dust here to inter a culture.
Under the auspices of an isolationist Mason-Dixon
We would coalesce. State lines soften,
Then give way entirely – weather patterns and jet streams
Melding misshapen clods. Swept behind the Mexico-couch
And best left forgotten.
These aren’t memories in the attic
to be brought down a rickety flight of stairs, and
Picked through with the grandkids. These aren’t the
Ill-fitted pieces of nostalgia. No, this is skin, twelve years old,
with a dust bowl haircut
Nothing approaching style, but with a hint of
Pizzazz in the economy of it. No,
This is dust like Nuclear fallout,
Or triangular trade runoff.
This is dust like war,
Dust like war paint,
This is the dust of the survivors.

Tracy Sopko was born and raised in small Florida town, hovering, like the state itself, on the fringes of Southern culture. She currently lives in Jacksonville and attends the University of North Florida.

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