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The Mechanic's Children


Two children barefoot in a spring,
their feet white and cold as turnips,
her dress pulled up, his pants rolled
past his knees. Each holds a jelly jar.
Imagine a tiny pair of glass lungs
hovering in the green woods, in-
haling murky water that was crystal
clear this morning when they lay
sleeping in the bed they share.
They're after the creatures that toil
in the sand, tireless as pacemakers.
The cracked crankcases of the cars
their father abandoned back here
bleed oil. When they find the rainbows
they catch them too. And long after
all the creatures they caught have died
the rainbows will abide.

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