Owen Lucas

54
 
He is in the foundry
Beating at iron with a
Hammer and the light
Of the forge is orange
And dull and on his
Back and thick forearms
Red hair lifts up in
The sucking dry air
Of the forge and grease
Is on his skin like
Burns or long dark scars
And as he raises the
Hammer and lets it
Fall and ring one out
It is not the 200 pounds
Of meat and fat and
Coiled gut that hammers
It is the solid air
Humming full and heavy.
It is the silence
That allows the chime
To sound and it is
Absence that inhabits
The fall of the act on it,
As the furnace creates
And encloses the fire.

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Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal