On Labor
for my son
B., do you remember the crane
that raised up that worker
to tie a rope to a tree,
then how he took a chainsaw to it?
The branches shook apart.
The workers shoved the tree
into a woodchipper.
And you mimicked the sound
all afternoon.
At night I read you a story
about electricity.
How it is pulled from earth,
so many coal workers
beneath ground tearing it apart.
The illustrations were horrific
and yet,
I read you that story anyway.
B., light in the world
doesn’t mean taking light from
somewhere else.
Remember the earth like a prism:
light in and more out.
This is how shadows work.
They cover and cover.
Temple of Salt
an erasure of Genesis 4:15-5:29
finding god began
in likeness
his name
all the
days lived
lived after
all the
days lived
and died
all the
days
all the
days his
name
Daniel Lassell is the author of Spit, winner of the 2020 Wheelbarrow Books Emerging Poetry Prize selected by Gabrielle Calvocoressi, as well as a chapbook, Ad Spot. His poems have appeared in the Colorado Review, Cherry Tree, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere. He grew up in Kentucky, where he raised llamas and alpacas.
Header photo by Natee K Jindakum, courtesy Shutterstock.
