Anisetta Valdez
The Anchor

When we talk about

Our bones,

Blown to ore from muscle,

Will we promise that

We’ll remember

The precise moment he

First drew iron out

From our flesh.

Fed to the cacophony of flame,

From the conveyor of

His tongue, burnt

To the serenity of sinter;

Heated by breath,

Meanwhile,

Delivered to

The furnace aglow in

His lungs.

After the flash, what didn’t

Belong quickly

Evaporated;

What was left smelled of blood,

And began

Raining down sparks,

Where they scattered

Elusively.

While the element inside,

Mixed with the scrap,

Becoming,

Even throughout, thirst

Finally quenched

Plunging into

And out of. In two

directions, pulling,

Holding the frame,

chainlinks rising.

The tendons

Reattach to bone.

Sinews remade

Rediscover their purpose:

Walking alone.