Under the half-light of the toolshed
my father’s lost beneath the tractor,

the white-knuckled lover
of broken machines.

He packs the new bearings,
dark fingers smooth the grease bead.

I hold the light and hand down the tools.
The afternoon holds its dust by the collar,

pins it against the shed. Having the right tools,
he tells me, is having angels-of-fucking-mercy.

I hold the light and hand down the tools,
my father’s hands lifting to meet them.

:: Michael McGriff, Dismantling the Hills (Pittsburgh, 2008)

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