HEPHÆSTUS NURSING
by T.C. Martin
Born slant-nosed & mangled-jawed,
daddy nursed all crooked, piping wind
through his one clear nostril. There,
between breath & swallow, milk met mucus:
his first invention. He smiled, toothless
& busted, at this new making, wholly his.
Isn’t that how it is, thought his mother,
as she swiped her fourth & final boy’s chin
with folded Bounty. You make them, then
they make a mess, have all the fun & leave you
holding the napkin. But her lemon-spirit fled
at the sight of his dented cheeks, the clamp of lips
on her, sticky & strained. She had heard a prophecy
of metal in his hands. Hammers, nails, screws.
Even gold. Gears in his teeth, which no boy
would want. But she knew what was needed
for straightening out a mouth. Knew her boy,
born broken, would need breaking again.