They Called Her Star Dust by Nicole Jean Turner

They Called Her Star Dust

They Called Her Star Dust

by Nicole Jean Turner

I often write about people we’ve lost to make sure they aren’t forgotten.

The way they were there for me in moments of real-world bullshit,
I’d like to imagine letters on a page in some collection shelved
in a ten-cent sale or little free library book box
carry on their heartfelt intention beyond what once was

a hug in a parking lot becomes everlasting

I was once told that when we die, the energy of our body
like all forces in nature is not lost, rather it reforms
and as the atoms of the flesh stop shaking, the dust
of skin cells in the carpet and the ceiling fan’s accumulation
create a sort of inscription for the living that we forget to
consider. How many parking lots did we cross together
dropping footprints in mud and hot breath into the wind,
where did those fragments of us end up after they evaporated

when I long to visit the memorial site but don’t have the means,
I can dust myself off the bookshelves and visit those old poems
I can sit with the fan I haven’t turned on since that last summer,
our bodies break down, but our existence is everlasting
you just need to know where to look


Nicole Jean Turner is an artist from New England with an affinity for vignettes, napping outdoors, and conversations that confront the human condition. She writes in cursive to hide the butchered spelling that would otherwise raise suspicion about her master’s degree in writing. Get her latest book at

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