Under World by Jacqueline West
No one knows what he’s doing
down there
with his acetylene and sparks
and gouged iron vises
No one knows why he disappears
day after day
into the dragon huff of torches
the hammer of hard things
against harder things or why
he comes back
skin glazed gray, hands scarred
and every whisker smelling like sulfur
No one watches him bend
over cups of fire
the searing eyes of crucibles
staring back into his own
No one sees him shaping bars
and blades
pouring white-hot waterfalls
into black bones
but he must be happy
down there
alone in his burning kingdom
patiently building his own hell