Forged

My brother wore bags over his boots

              to keep the grease & grime from his time

                           at the steel mill off the carpet & steps

he mounted, heaving each foot

              like a monster born of the grave

                           -yard shift — stiff & awkward,

his arms smeared w/dark matter,

              the lather of machine & industry

                            bathing his clothes & face in a glaze

of sweat & smoke, oil & the dirt

              of what’s been done before — the work

                            of uncles & cousins who wore the same

jumpsuit, goggles & gloves to grab hold

              of cold finished bars using their backs

                            & shoulders to move the weight around

w/the help of machines, the knobs

              to control the two-ton bundles

                            held by a buckle above the heads

of hard-hatted men that could snap

              & let loose the mass of all that metal

                            meant to weld into a foundation,

a beginning to build upon

              when it was his time to work,

                            to clock in clean & leave

feeling filthy no matter the shift

              or stiffness in the bones creaking

                            like the wooden stairs he climbed