MargenMy grandfather bent metal until the metal said yes. I bend words and none of them give.
He had the fire on his side, the anvil, the certainty that hard things obey too if you strike them in the right place.
I work a more stubborn material: the intangible, the thing that burns without heating and goes cold the moment you name it.
I inherited his hands but not his patience with the solid. I look for the shape in what has none, I melt air, I hammer smoke and some nights, very few, a spark comes out that barely lights the exact size of my failure.
He made railings, bells, ploughs. I make this: a noise that resembles the truth and that sometimes lets it through.