The Doctor Looks at My Blood Work
Says: There are blacksmiths in your eyes.
Maybe this explains the forging.
The way I flatten heat. Bang
earth against answer until
I call it knife. Nodding to bellows
in their muddy howls. Told them
chemistry separates from slag.
I speak in gardens. Interrogate
the estrogen and her rising weeds.
From space this earth is more red
than any astronaut will speak.
In the dirt, the iron begs to be born.
I kneel before anvil and pray.