Dirt

Ancients washed
in rivers.
Prairie people with buckets
by coal stoves,
and the perfumed
hanky under the nose
of a Victorian
lady, her defense
against the scents of others: heavy
hoops hanging off hips,
crowns of funk
riding the skull. Venn diagram
of smells: overlapping
clouds in crowds
miasma of manure
and chimney smoke, a child's
bright stink so low
to the ground. Stray
dogs after a hard rain, wet coats
humming.

And I don't want
to shower, refuse to fill
the tub. I'd rather stew
in secretions, secret
signs of hormones and health:
an Atlantis in my armpit, oily
head slick
as a hard candy shell.

Is this a form of self-love,
love of the day-to-day
disgusting—ear wax,
dandruff, bellybutton
grit? Crusted
mustard under
fingernails?

Or am I
excavating the animal
me: freshly-groomed spaniel
doomed to roll
in the pile of expired
squirrel? There's
passion in decomposition—
sloughed skin spared
from the drain,
sea of cells in sebum, rickety
chains of DNA
adrift. Too much is lost
to the loofa or the
lime and almond
sugar scrub.

I won't be reborn
under steaming
water. This
living dirt, redolent
with the promise of death,
is home.

- Wendy Oleson (from Split Rock Review)

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