The Doctor Looks at My Blood Work

Says: There are blacksmiths in your eyes.

Maybe this explains the forging.

The way I flatten heat. Bang

earth against answer until

I call it knife. Nodding to bellows

in their muddy howls. Told them

chemistry separates from slag.

I speak in gardens. Interrogate

the estrogen and her rising weeds.

From space this earth is more red

than any astronaut will speak.

In the dirt, the iron begs to be born.

I kneel before anvil and pray.