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Cannon Jake Adam York
They bring it up in chains, rusted dark as mud, and the bore shoots water till right. The whole crowd scatters, convinced it’s charged. Scientists wave it over, unalarmed. A whistle blows, and a shift of steelworkers turns from the river, amazed the Rebel cannon lay so close, just feet below when they swam, slow nights, the water hot, metallic, iron biting at their tongues, so close they could have kicked it. At dark, blue flame rises from the gas-plant, painting everything with its glow, and the furnace crew perches to watch the river steam. One by one, they rise to trawl the bank, tracing exhaust upstream and down. The others sit on the rails, still warm, like the test-irons they worry in their hands, thinking how the metal smells, how dear it holds whatever heat you give. Originally appeared in Louisiana Literature
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