Sarah Wimbush
Strike is a black lily falling through the air
like a broken house brick.
Strike is the pressure of a coal wagon
on a picket line at Ferrybridge.
Strike is a caber tossed onto a road
inside a concrete block.
Strike is a boy scratching at slack.
Entombment. The weight of snow.
Hearse-black. Slapped. Kissed.
The jaws of a baited bear.
Imagine, all that hope
in one small dark place.
Melted down,
they will be parts for Puntos
buzzing across the horizon.
Amazon cathedrals. Coffin nails.