Jen Kropinak
“This Steel Worker Is Really An Oracle In Disguise”
She shouts this to you from across the open hearth furnace, blasting 1,200 degrees
thick boots, thick moods, reading the blueprints, reading the room
this is your fortune coming once in a blue moon:
“You are not defined by time, by space, by dangling modifiers or past happenings.
You are defined by how well you oil your machine.
The inside of the owl’s hand is your death.
Straddling the balance between what is and what could be.
You desire to live, but this desire costs you everything.
Through molten trials your bug eyes glimpse a new dawn,
breaking into a thousand tiny pieces . . .
each fragmenting into the person you love the most.”
She stops to wipe beads of sweat from running into her eyes, pulling out a red handkerchief from her back pocket, the same one her grandfather carried and his father and his father and his and his and his. The metallic dust shines on her face as she licks her lips, lead tasting sweet. With a jerk, she pulls the gears to mold the hot steel.
“It stings doesn’t it?
This bee sphere of ambivalence.
So let it.”
- Cassandra, 37, Machinist
A note from the author: By the end of the 1980s, Pittsburgh’s steel industry collapsed due to back to back recessions, globalization and trade embargos. As the steel mills shuttered, over 150,000 skilled workers lost their jobs. This affected families, communities and the region for generations. The sky could breathe, the rivers could see. At the height of the steel industry, workers were responsible for providing 60% of America’s steel – building bridges, sky scrapers, ships and more. Unions were created to fight for better pay, safer working conditions and protected rights. However, the federal government turned its back on the steel industry, allowing capitalism to dictate its fate. The fish would like to add that they have been spawning again. Today, the steel mill hearths are quiet except for three. But those with firehearts still remember the tapestry: Braddock, Duquesne, Hazelwood, Homestead, McKeesport, Swissvale, the buried places – they are still here, brightly lit – weaved together in celestial fate.
Jen Kropinak (she/her) is a mother, writer and artist from Pittsburgh, PA. Jen’s past literary work has been featured in Generation Magazine, Dionne’s Project, The Rebis, and the occasional zine. She’s currently a writer/producer for Jam Roll Studios.
Follow Jen: @momumonsterszine or https://momumonsters.com/
