Chapters (43)
- Cover
- Note to the Reader
- Acknowledgments
- Dedication
- Still Life
- Hum of the Machine God
- Athazagoraphobia: Fear of Being Ignored
- How to Disappear Completely
- Man Matching Description
- The Sky, Now Black with Birds
- Looks Like a Boy
- A Detroit Hum Ending with Bones
- On Metal
- Masticated Light
- On Gentleness
- Chionophobia: Fear of Snow
- The Boy Who Bathes the Dead
- Thalassophobia: Fear of the Sea
- Coming Back for You
- Hum of the Machinist’s Lover
- Hum for the Hammer
- Neat
- How to Get Your Gun Safely Out of Your Mouth
- And Even the Living Are Lost
- Aichmophobia: Fear of Needles
- I Do Have a Seam
- Triage
- The Man Who Paints Mountains and Helicopters
- Hum for the Stone
- The Girl Who Builds Rockets from Bricks
- Mechanophobia: Fear of Machines
- Pomegranate Means Grenade
- The God Engine
- Paper Frog on Spring
- Thinking Like a Split Melon
- If They Hand Your Remains to Your Sister in a Chinese Takeout Box
- Paper Crane on Letting Go
- Hum for the Bolt
- Paper Tiger to Wind
- Macrophobia: Fear of Waiting
- The Hum of Zug Island
- Ask What I’ve Been
- About the Author
what I tell you about circuit boards and snow,
I say to my jittery metal friends. I know waiting
is a hand closing slowly around needle
points, but we need the patience of a frozen sea.
Sometimes those words quiet the machines,
the hum gets easier to ignore. But pine needles
still fall gold. Dead trees creak. A rain-gutter sea waits,
machine-gray, and my throat begs to drink the snow.
Ask What I’ve Been
Ask What I’ve Been
I think cast stiff
around ankle, plaster poured
into a chest-shaped mold.
I think wet cement.
I say stone, and you think pebble
in stream or marble
fountain or kimberlite.
I say gravel or grave
or ask me later. There are days
I mourn being built
from this. Made
of so much aggregate
and gravestone, so little
diamond and fountain water.
When I was a construction
crane, my balled fists
toppled buildings of boys,
I rifled through the pockets
of their ruins.
Ask what I’ve been. Detroit
is a stretch of highway littered
with windshield,
a boy picking the remains
of a window from his hair.
I say Detroit;
you think glass.
I say glass; you think atrium;
I say atrium beams
warped by heat;
think cathedral. My shoe soles
say stain. Glass between treads,
treads imprinted on gum.
Everything finds its bottom,
say the sewers.
Don’t come any closer,
begs a map of collapsed veins,
while the burnt-out colonial,
this empty lot,
this alley-dark cavity
all say the shelter is sparse, yes,
but there is space here for bones—
a ribcage, brimming like yours.
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