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.
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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.
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