Poem
by Maryann Corbett • Photo by Ilana Peled
 They sit there in the basement, out of sight, posing their quiet risk, but undiscussed, matter under pressure. He goes down. Does what he does with them. Enacts designs in which she has no part. He masks his face. Etches the surface with the flux that bites. Sparks up that dangerous light till molten metal, brazen, flows. The joint sucks it inside. Thank God it's only this. There are worse things. The gnashing teeth of saws that eat hands whole. The edgy nail gun that can pierce the skull. She keeps her distance, so as not to see that bright green burning tip. Do not look there, he says. Do not look there. Be very careful. |
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