The Machine

Back in the Dark Ages, before the afternoons turned to curdled milk, we had a machine made entirely of wood, stained to look like iron & greased with bear fat. It creaked something wonderful, like a house full of crickets. It was easy to operate at slow speeds, the idea being to fit one’s body in among the upright rocking levers & dance with it, dressed like a Siberian shaman, spool for the spirit world’s high-wire act. But I made it go too fast & it flew apart. I found myself lying alone on a hillside, under the speechless stars.