In another life, my father
must have been a blacksmith.
Essential in his village
Essential to be needed
(otherwise what’s the point?)
Swinging his hammer in heat, in smoke,
content within his St Bruno haze, suspicious
of anything lighter than black leather
anything lighter than brass fittings
- comfortable with sweat stains and scattered ash,
scars and deep bruises marking him
a man’s man and breadwinner,
- relaxed with the air blue, the tribe white
and his iron laughter echoing with every strike,
every blow shaping his son
into his family’s likeness.