Øyvind Holmstad CC
Theory of Dust
Each breath fills my lungs
with dust stars have spewed
in their coughing fits.
To write a theory of dust
I flattened myself against the sidewalk
in front of my house, palms skyward
and I’ll tell you, I could feel
the Earth forgetting us
one acre at a time.
It reminded me that my mother’s
first act of love
was to expel me into this life
a star herself
collapsing into lidocaine
and general anesthesia
of the epidural.
On some nights
around my bed
while behind my eyes
I recreate the tranquil eons
before light crowned us
wondering what it’s like
to love dirt
as only roots do.
Today, my mother tells me
I’ll know my tomatoes are ripe
by the way they leap
from the vine into my hand.
How they need to be held by something
they don’t understand.
The Music of Leaving
Each moment is a birth
a fresh tear in the screen door
left swinging on a rushlit afternoon.
Creaking wood may signify an ending,
the moment a flame burns through its oxygen
and fades. Whoever passes through
is forgotten, then, in a singing of hinges,
a rasp of air. Maybe someone who’s gone
is remembered only by the trees
whose gaze makes hairs of the arms straighten
like a chill wind whispering
through browned Autumn grasses.
Maybe there is no good way
to record the music of leaving,
whose instruments are a gloaming sky
and the faithful progress of rust.
Christopher McCormick is an MFA in creative writing candidate at Bowling Green State University where he teaches English and is an assistant editor for the Mid-American Review. His work has appeared in The Mill and Working Artist Collective. When not reading or writing, he enjoys cooking for his friends and walking in the woods.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.