Aperçus Quarterly 1.3

Jan BottiglieriCastle Metals(a cebu)Once in the offices of the steel warehouse I wasthe manager’s small daughter visiting in a Sunday dress.In the wood-paneled room, there were papers on the deskand lovely organizational charts, fish bone diagramswith words clinging to them as their meat.My brother passes by, clever namesake,shaking hands in all his little-man-ness.He beams like two boys. My brother istwo boys riding by on the mail cart, laughing.My feet run themselves acrossthe checkerboard linoleum: blue-fleckedwhite, white-flecked blue, a sky with cloudsarrayed for optimum efficiency. No one knowshow little time my father has.Now a grey-suited man bends at the waist before me,lowers his red face like a sunset, takes my handinto his, white bird in a nest of rocks: we all loveyour father here—even the men in the back,the warehouse men, love him.The warehouse is last: my father keepsa hand on my brother, a hand on me, and from the wide windowwe survey the mountains and plains of stacked steel,the beams and rolls, the men in their orange hardhats.A few raise their hands to wave. Here and there,in brilliant fealty, the thrilling cutters spraytheir blue, obedient fire.12