God of the Forge


P O E T R Y


Koushin Unber


He’s a question mark hooked over his table,

unbeknownst to the world outside

 

an emblazoned hammer in his oxide-covered hand;

a checkered breastplate framed up by a nightstand;

with pails of bitumen and sacks of asphalt by a crackling hearth;

 

Baxter said his fissured face and blistered fingers weren’t

made for love-making but rather flame breaking.

His steps towards the anvil are an arrhythmic clink,

worlds fainter than the heavy clangour of his tools –

effortless and strong.

 

He’s a question mark hooked over his table,

toiling away assiduous at the day’s work and,

unbeknownst to the world outside.

 


Koushin is a certified bruh girl with the emotional capacity of a brick. Rattle on about schools of philosophy or film theory to her at [email protected] 

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