I.

            At the entrance

to Farm ‘N Fleet I see

            three giant barn fans

            marked down

for end-of-summer sale.

Wide as I am tall,

            they seem

like fathers or shepherds

            not things –

strong characters, like

            Heidi’s Alm-Uncle,

            ancient

metal working Vulcan

            or Old Yeller

the devoted Texas dog.

 

            I’ve wanted

to be like them – to have

a broad back as firm

            as beams –

always able to carry

            my share of the load.

 

But the flannel

            of butter yellow

chore gloves in this store,

            the men’s briefs

and thermal weaves

            infuse me

when I’m tired, with a building

............desire

............to yield.

 

............Now

it would soothe me

            to feel shy

            in the shade

of something large,

            to be a lamb or calf

huge fans stroke

            with fresh air.

Not weak, but somehow

            unbroken,

transparent and willing

            to tremble

with primal

            trust.

 

II.

When I was small

            I studied

Old Yeller’s absolute heart,

            and placed myself

in the Alm-Uncle’s hut.

            I absorbed

            the ancestry

of implements at his hearth,

            when he toasted

            cheese in fire

            on an iron fork.

 

            Then I married

............a man in overalls

            so I’d be lulled

by the tick of brass loops,

            tapping

the turning sidewalls

            of the dryer.

 

            A tinner

like the god Vulcan,

he’s hobbling on one foot,

            as he tries

            galoshes on

between opened boxes

............of boots.

 

............He’s magnified

............to me, when he

............concentrates,

............bending furnace plenums,

            ............or melting flux;

            ............thoughtful beside me

            ............in the store,

selecting elbows and collars

            ............for round duct.

 

            Barefoot

            Vulcan

            handled force

intently, like my tinner.

            But he was mild,

marked by his limp, just

            like my stiff-legged

            father – a doctor,

in his Saturday cardigan,

            he was always

trailed by three daughters,

            when he dreamed

            of skill with tools

            at Circle Lumber.

Back to Contents