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laika Sep 2014
Old car batteries, jumper cables and a squeeze toy
lay strewn about the playpen,
saliva and battery acid intermingle there,
a jagged-toothed mobile slowly revolves overhead,
the arc-welder spits brilliantly as we mend teddy’s arm.

The walls shudder from pounding machines downstairs,
the scent of spilled hydraulic oil and grease waft in,
is dinner cooking?

Teddy’s arm is healed,
the weld a rippling scar,
we take him by the arm to the forge
and draw a bath,
climbing in we turn molten again.
laika Sep 2014
I knew you
I knew you when we were young
our roots barely held us in the loamy soil
our pale green leaves gently, tentatively unfurling
toward the sun
toward each other
but now we're old
and decaying

With each year, we shed our skin
sloughing off bark
dropping our brown withered leaves
slouching into winter
we hunker down

And each spring
the call to bud and renew is quieter
our trunk and stalks creak with the waking effort
we decay

there is no escape from entropy
and one day the loam and humus that birthed us
that even now feed and lift us up
will reclaim us

button caps will push their tendrils into our flesh
forcing apart our fibers
to let silverfish crawl within
laika Sep 2014
Block by block
I delve down
is it iron?
is it gold?
or only gravel and stone

toiling with pick and shovel
I dream obsidian spires
towering 190 blocks above the shore

I dream wheat fields
and cow pens
nestled amidst rolling hills

I dream discovery

but before these
there must be iron

— The End —