Uncle Philip at the glass factory
[ poetry - september 09 ]
Sweating with the men in the jungle heat
of the factory floor, a glob of glass
fizzes through his coat and suit into the meat
of his arm. The shock rushes through his veins,
takes his shape and becomes cold to the touch.
A volcanic shift in his landscape has begun.
He takes to carrying a spoon to tip molten glass
down the nape of his neck and into the gaps
between shirt buttons. Soon this is not enough
and he wades into its boiling fury. Now
only his hands and head have skin
the rest of himself is hidden away
under clothes buttoned up to his chin.