Poem

‘Afterbirth’

Metal birth

The clang of the saw my birth pangs,

contracting sharp cascades of sparks,

threatening the hair on his knuckles.

The man is pressing fleshy fingers

Over silver canals he’s made.

My skeleton frame a cold, dead promise.

In plastic boxes, my joints are steel bolts.

The twist of a wrench:

I can bend, bow, break.

I can wave, walk, waltz.

Now, a daunting task-

life force in electrical wires

requires skill and patience.

He assembles my nerves, and I wait.

I am not alive.

I am nothing yet,

but he sees something of a God in me.

A little God he’s crafting.