dus•ty

There are tiny children in me made of furious, shifting dust. They’re pushing against my ribs and passing through each other, aware only of their ill intent. They are made of fury and hurt, oblivious to their number’s compounding effects on their host. Their teeth are sharp, and their claws find purchase on every available patch of internal flesh.

I look down and gingerly rub my aching chest, unsure of the remedy. I'm scared to ask & powerless to describe the shape-shifters within me.

I have no authority over them, because I have no jurisdiction in their motherland. A land where people are animals and animals are people, where some lives mean nothing more than space occupied, and greed is a more welcome fuel than peace.

They are shaking me and they are multiplying, so I begin to stow them away in cubbies, crafted in secret of my own muscle and sinew. As more children appear, more cubbies are built.

Years from now, how far down will these rows extend into my body? Legs filled with furious dust, shaking as I age.

Only the most unaffected, or perhaps the most engaged, hosts find themselves still walking gracefully as they grow old, as they lead their grandchildren down the aisle.

As if reaching to pet a puppy, I brace for the nips on my finger, the scratches on my wrist as I reach down into my chest. I wince as I let these scared, filthy children step into my palm. As I carry them up through my throat towards the light of day, I can’t help but dream of hearing, “grandpa, what stable legs you have”.