Living
with Hephaestus
by
Peg Bresnahan
Some
say we attract
our
nightmares,
like
now, when I know
my
husband is about to lift
part
of a sculpture
weighing
one hundred pounds.
Absurd
to cheer him on
when
I see what it takes
to
create the shapes
blazing
his mind.
Day
after day, sparks
cascade
around him
until
the image behind his eyes
bends
to a form I can touch.
I
don’t know if it’s watching
the
hoist lift and swing
great
sheets of steel over his head,
or
if it’s the fire I fear most.
The
time he walked through our door
face
black, holes burned
through
the three layers of clothing
his
leather apron didn’t shield
when
they caught the live end
of
the welding torch.
He
lowers his helmet
and
strikes an arc.
Don’t
look, he warns,
it
can blind you.
A
piece of sun tears loose
and
the flame hisses
hunting
for contact.
~
first published in Southern Poetry Review
