Poetry: dust

this country is covered in dust.

and each time I slump through its
sunshine and car horn streets,
mouth agape,

the grit creeps up to airbrush my red toenails
and sandaled feet,
a natural hejab for my
discreetly exposed parts;

and as I’m stupefied by the
perfect erosion of the
breadcrumb boulder mountains
and the broom-swept deserts

I remember how I read somewhere that
dust is made
at least 15 percent, I think
of human skin,

and I wonder
is it the worn down people
of this land
on my feet and hands?