a transcription of the poem read on the home page of this issue

by David Mills

I’m what happens when a house breathes
out; sore, black breath in a New York throat.
Trapped caterpillar. What they think
of me—owners of these homes
and white master who hires me out

to black master sweep. Elbows, ankles
knees up zigzag chimneys: squeeze
of heat and dusk. Soot, head to toe: dirt
thick as a shirt. Palms facin’ out; stomach
up against and empty. My days a brick

wide and a brick and a half long: I could
die here. But brush above my head
I chuck soot; chip tar wit’ a scraper;
black rain, pepperin’ my neck, hot rim
of my eyes. Filth to the sides of flues,

mazes sticky with poison, hearth
to cap damper. Started prenticin’
when I was six. Now
Eighteen Flesh leathery. Ankles
swelled to black apples. Growin’:

a stunt. Can’t say which is better:
cramped heat or winter’s chill.
My cry—Soot-O, Weep, Weep!—
on the street or pinched in the flue.
My life up in nothin’ but smoke.

Poem copyright 2019 by David Mills. All rights reserved.

See more poems from David Mills on The Fight & The Fiddle: “Dear… Sincerely…,” “Up Up And… (The Speed Boy Interlude),” and  “Momentary Arizona.” 

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Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt