The Ironsmith of Isfahan

He (of nameless lineage) lifts a spear to the

throat of the snake, like a torch to a salt mine--

a ubiquitous terror. The ancient alchemists

purported turning mercury into gold; the smiths

with hammer and chisel beat ore onto anvils.

Elsewhere, on a hijacked silver throne,

a man whose youthful cook kissed his shoulders

feeds villagers’ brains to basilisks. A father

abandons his furnace and pierces his apron

with a pike. The daevas scoff.

In a dream on a farm a young boy raised by cows

discovers the forging of fire. Fresh from the earth,

with mace in hand, he marches the blacksmith’s flag.

By ox-head and lion’s fur, the demon is bound and

exiled underground. He commits to making no sound

till, one day, the king’s cook decides he’s hungry.

Everyone, even the carpenter, even the merchant,

cowers in fear.

Run. Leave all but the littlest of things:

the whites of your eyes, the air in your lungs,

the water in your palms. Run very fast and don’t look

down.