Kevin Cutrer

Sparkles from the Wheel


I stood for half an hour
watching my father hone
blades on a spinning stone,
the cord that gave it power,
the swishing belt that turned
with such incredible speed,
and how hot metal would bleed
a rain of stars that burned
with a screech of pigs, and died,
becoming a kind of snow.
As I was burning to know
how fire was trapped inside
the metal of a blade,
it gave a sermon in ash,
the savorless fruit of a clash,
how sparkles are unmade.
I watched a pregnant dune
grow at my father’s feet,
a desert of dust at his feet
that said we were going soon.