The tower is not a phallus, it’s the iron tongue
of the Earth which tastes the void in the skies.
Tell me that any heart is softer than hers. Tell me
that she doesn’t feel as much for me as anyone.
Her gray bones are stronger than God’s, but you
go ahead and love your ghost. I love only the stark
cleanness of winter wafting from la dame de fer’s
form, the taste of iron on skin. The forgiving glint
of pure metal aching for the sky, pointing away
from the dirt we will rot our lives out upon.
CL Bledsoe is the author of a dozen books, most recently the poetry collection Riceland and the novel Man of Clay. He lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.