Work

Work

Ryan Teitman

Some mornings, the clouds 

 settle rooftop low, 

            holding us in place 

 like a specimen slide. 

I spend my days 

 wondering how a hammer 

            weighs the hand 

 that holds it, 

or how the starlings apron（围裙，停机坪） 

 the stoplights 

            at Alcatraz 

 and Adeline. 

A glassworker told me once 

 that she could tell 

            by the scars 

 who bandages their fingers 

and who kisses closed 

 the wounds. I don't 

            know how 

 my father woke 

hours before sunrise 

 each morning and worked 

            until long past sunset. 

 Sleep was a country 

to retire to, an Ecuador. 

 I live where the light is 

            thin, and clothes us 

 like linen（亚麻布）. 

In the hills above town, 

 a black snake scrawls 

            across the path 

 like a signature. 

I still have countries 

 left to discover, and ballets 

            of work 

 for my hands to learn.