Iron Horse

You again
the catch in the throat
the fact of tomorrow
of the one after that
the what have you done to her
the how did we get here
the resonance,
the slow turning
of something behind all this
the evidence
the deep blue echo
of machinery at work
the what have we done
the acting all casual
while hooked
on the gears
through pink gills
breathing blood and air
the small talk
the trying to shake it off
the harder we swim
away, the deeper the tears will get
the smell of oil
the creeping awareness
we can’t see the cogs
or soften their teeth
only try and dissolve
over them with some grace
We can’t see who turns the crank,
only wonder at the benevolent
or cold expression
as he blends our entrails
does he have the benign
savagery of jesus,
the cool focus
of a butcher grinding up
the lesser meats,
the virgin’s brow
of bland sorrow,
or the thumping vigor
of a reaper mowing off heads?

Photograph by Theresa Brandabur