Published Fall 2006
 
In the Closet of the Steel Museum
Beyond the hall of photographs, the inscriptions shining gold,
the closet door unlocked, I discovered
the modern workers' equipment: five hoagie shaped sweepers
all with dislodged handles like torpedoes,
there was an arsenal of window cleaner, and an ant motel
in the corner. As Heather and I slipped inside,
I thought of my grandfather's broken watch. His refusal
to take it off, even in the light of criticism.
The first time he brought me here, he invested hours explaining
the production of steel. His wristwatch
shined like a beacon to my boredom. All I wanted then
was to be out strumming my alternative
tuned guitar under the pine trees, dreaming of easy nymphets
with lilac perfume and black lipstick.
My grandfather ended his story by demonstrating how he
dipped his fist into a bucket of hot water
on the day U.S. Steel shut down forever. He held his branded arm
under until the second hand on his watch
stopped. His face flushed red; I understood this not as salient
anger but as a lack of oxygen, an eroticism
for the strange landscape of life lived. At that moment I
dipped my hand under her skirt, pulling
her body up against mine, her lips to my lips. I could smell
her black hair, not like lilacs at all, but
like burnt waffles, the kind he and I made when nine inch snow
boxed us inside the apartment complex.
And here we were, crammed like a bookmark into an encyclopedia
of the real thing. I thrust and held my
breath until climax. Sharing her long into glow of after hours,
the light dimmed, and I scurried out the front door
as the security officer bellowed after me. For him the nightshift
was just beginning. For us both, it ended a lifetime ago.
In the cold dark, I remember that night, as steam climbing out sewer
grates, as a rash of thought in a depression of flesh. |
