It’s my month, I think, every time
I abbreviate it—not the one of my birth,

but my name, the Roman god of doorways,
beginnings, sunrises and sunsets.

One letter difference between his name
and mine to indicate entrance and,

yes, transitions, him with two bearded
faces looking in opposite directions—

both to the past and the future,
backward and forward. Two-faced, yes,

but not necessarily deceitful or
contradictory. In the spirit of duality,

I play with Janus words that hold
opposite meanings—dust, which can

mean the removal or application of it.
And now I’m thinking of cookies

dusted with confectioners’ sugar,
which leads me also to the notion

of wiping clean at the beginning of this
new year—to heed the impulse to

tidy up and organize at the same time
I want to burrow in, read, nap.

Janis as Janus—I claim my true nature
in this, my month, and yes, go in

search of dust cloth and cookie,
ready to embrace both.