we don’t like rust.
         it reminds us that we are dying.
                                 —Brett Singer 

are you saying that iron understands
time is another name for God?

that the rain-licked pot is holy?
that the pan abandoned in the house

is holy? are you saying that they
are sanctified now, our girlhood skillets

tarnishing in the kitchen?
are you saying we only want to remember

the heft of our mothers’ handles,
their ebony patience, their shine?