Torrent

Torrent

November woods rebound with a quiet ease, fathers
and sons dress and cuff those draped, pointed bucks

Shoulders that first learned to be lean turning rivets
and sockets can shoulder the kick from a long gun

On the break room wall is an art deco colliery print:
swarthy stacks, helmet, pick axe backed in amber

In the midtown museum the great four walled mural
features men such as these: shift clockers

They hear the whistle; the time card clicks; they wait
on a buck; they know their work.

The torrent in the blood, that lacquer of sweat, the sting
of liquor, that ache in the back, it cannot last.

Jeremy Nathan Marks

Note: This poem appeared (alongside “Don’t Walk”) in Morel Magazine in January 2017. To explore Morel you can go here: http://morelmag.ca