The Working Class

She's a woman of good dimensions and heft
a lazy left eye, sturdy hands, and clever feet.

She dances the beef, lamb, and pork to sleep.
Spills their guts, cuts their nuts, flays their hides.

She never slips or slides on the bloody floor.
A ten-minute cigarette break and she's back for more.

***

"Who's that?"
"My mother."
"Your mother's a butcher?"
"She dances on a bloody floor."
"A tradeswoman in a man's world?"
"Carves her place with bladed hands."

***

He's barrel stout, thick necked, fat faced.

He pours the molten metal from the steel kettle.
Splashes his red hued sweat on the concrete floor.
Breaks the red brown creature from its birth mold.
Dons goggles and gloves for triple degree overtime.

***

"Who's that?"
"My father."
"Your father's a foundry worker?"
"He brings the heat. Feeds the flame."

***

Three children's dismembered bodies found
in a residence burnt to the ground
Blood-soaked, smoke-logged, parents sought