The bangs of the oak drape its face,
a hard-won testament to its century-long life
before the men with their axes--their Xs,
their axis--march to the beat of a mechanical
drum and play a tune on metal instruments.
Instruments of torture are made of metal and wood,
but so are woodwinds and brass, their turns
just slightly different from the screams you
would hear with that old face staring beneath
its own limbs and leaves.
Dante's suicidals know that punishment better
than any: they dangle their wooden limbs
helplessly, before a wandering poet comes to bite
the tip from its edge and allow their blood
to speak their forgotten words.
In all of Inferno, they were my favorite torture,
hung upside down, in contortional positions,
wherever they happened to land after Charon's
maniacal--mechanical--ferry.
I once saw a man named "Ferriman" and wanted
him to be my ride to the underworld,
where I might land in a split or other
gymnastic position until Dante broke my finger.
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