iron-jawed angels
as a kid, i read a book about a boy
who could manipulate metal at will;
twist and transform steel and aluminum.
he was the savior of rusted-out cars
and broken appliances, toeing the line
between magic and art that towered
over the junkyard like massive seraphs.
for weeks afterward, i imagined
i had the same power: moving my hands
firmly through the air in an attempt
to knot the wires inside the tv into bowlines
and shape the kitchen sink spout into a sculpture.
i crouched in the driveway for hours,
trying to dent the sides of the family van,
leave a mark and be something’s salvation.
in college, i reread the book. for the next few weeks,
i felt my hands falling back into those old familiar
patterns, ghosting over the air in sketches
of diagrams that no one would ever see:
bike rack into bouquet, railing into river nymph,
car door into dented masterpiece.
but something was missing.
instead of a question, it read like ritual
without answer, the father, the son,
and the holy power waiting to see
what i would change--a power i still never had.
as a kid, i read a book about a boy
who could manipulate metal at will;
twist and transform steel and aluminum.
he was the savior of rusted-out cars
and broken appliances, toeing the line
between magic and art that towered
over the junkyard like massive seraphs.
for weeks afterward, i imagined
i had the same power: moving my hands
firmly through the air in an attempt
to knot the wires inside the tv into bowlines
and shape the kitchen sink spout into a sculpture.
i crouched in the driveway for hours,
trying to dent the sides of the family van,
leave a mark and be something’s salvation.
in college, i reread the book. for the next few weeks,
i felt my hands falling back into those old familiar
patterns, ghosting over the air in sketches
of diagrams that no one would ever see:
bike rack into bouquet, railing into river nymph,
car door into dented masterpiece.
but something was missing.
instead of a question, it read like ritual
without answer, the father, the son,
and the holy power waiting to see
what i would change--a power i still never had.
M.P. Armstrong is a disabled queer poet from Ohio, studying English and history at Kent State University. Their work appears or is forthcoming in many publications, including Luna Negra, Brainchild, and Red Earth Review. They also serve as managing editor and reporter for both Curtain Call and Fusion magazines. In their spare time, they enjoy traveling, board games, and brightly colored blazers. Find them online @mpawrites and at mpawrites.wixsite.com/website.