Out of seemingly nowhere
a dust devil racing across the desert
swirling up an image
from a week, a month—
ten, twenty, thirty years ago.
It’s suddenly alive, a fighting bull breathing fire:
the thing your mate or child or mother said or did
or didn’t say or do
that knocked you to the floor
and stomped on your heart.
It’s true, real, vivid as an HD movie
with a bombastic soundtrack—
a heart surgeon’s knife
poised to cut deep.
And it does cut, only with yet more pain
because the incision point is already an old, old scar,
or many scars, ones you don’t even remember,
maybe even from another life!
This time, however, you’re armed.
You remember that all is the Beloved.
That ancient or recent word or deed
churning within the mind
was not from the husband, wife, sister or child.
It was a love poem from the Friend to call you back
to remind you that you are not that mate, daughter, writer or neighbor
but are instead
a whirling universe