The very old muse
has decided I should write
A poem about Gu, who
is from Benin and used to be
The god of
ironworking. That I know little about him
Deters her not at
all. “You have seen his statue
Or a picture of it
at least. He carries a large sword,
With holes punched
in it. It must whistle
When he challenges
the wind. His hat is iron
And worn jauntily.
His smile is broad but his eyes
Never quite focus on
the world in front of him.”
My folk did not work
with iron but with tin
And, when they could
get it, silver. (A thrice-great-aunt
Ran off at 19 with a
burly redsmith, a copperworker
We speak her name
still as something half-remembered)
How should I know of
what iron dreams?
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