Soul of a Man
His was made of hollows and solitude
and any kind of liquid
that could fill it; water first,
the shadowy depths
fish and desire hid in,
whiskey later, eventually
what was left of the light.
The one that sparked
and reformed metal.
I loved the word foundry
even if the smell of it
on his clothes
reminded me of the tang
of blood, and something
else that I couldn’t get
my hands on. Like the coins
in his Mason jar, the one
he’d tell me to stick my hand in
take as many as I could.
It isn’t about how much you
take, just knowing
what your hands are capable of,
knowing how much
you can hold.
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/julia.k.singer/
Editor’s Note: This poem arrives at its subject obliquely, allowing the reader to slowly absorb the message promised by the title along the way.
Beautiful poem.
Very interesting use of the hand metaphor. The “tang of blood” also works well.