NEWBORN

The drainless garage breathes

with the wind, each wheeze

growing older.

The light bulb on the far side needs

replacing. It’s growing

blackness, as though the bottleneck

filament still smoldered,

releasing soot,

coating the glass.

Burnt out,

it lives on.

​

Cheaply built and jerry-rigged

to hum on a budget:

cutting machines and grinders

fill the cupboards.

Straight out of the box

a few days of haphazardry 

has them throwing sparks

against concrete and newborn hands.

 

Bright nips and even bigger bites

hardly worth the effort

wax peach fuzz from the wrists.

Fingertips and knuckles bleed

for the metal, for the rough-hewn

shapes of amateurs,

praying the next one better.

Respirators exile mucus from the sinuses

while barely keeping the dust from delicate,

fleshy lungs.

After, a shower is always mandatory.

The snot still comes out black:

 

not a good sign for the builder

unfinished with creation.

It makes no difference. When I’m making,

I know only the need to make. No risk

stops the itch to clasp

in zealous, bleeding hands

something crafted from will alone,

held as God

surely holds our world,

whispering, whispering

to no one, I made this.