Dark shapes in the pit, on their bellies, on bended knee in machine gore and shop light, praying, coaxing and cursing a last turnover, last fire from the cylinders, straining after notes of metal-on-metal, engines testifying to the dirt. They are not beautiful— sweat-coated, beer-soaked.
In the ring, it is time, distance between ignition and impact, steady excision of mercy from each hit. It is the ways to survival, the last round. To be the one driving out, despite unlubricated gears and engine fires, to space on the winner’s trophy. How those stalled in the mud will be winched free and hauled to the scrap heap,
to the seasons and rust.
For company, the desired affect is yellowcake, petit fours, princess cut. But first there is pitchblende kimberlite matrix the quartz body to be reckoned.
One must carefully consider bath composition: rhodium musk lilac alkali. Tin-tub or in-situ, firelight being a matter of flint and tinder. So, too, considerations of the amalgamation process— whither the life in last year’s stockings, cut and drift at the elbows, sump settings. Anisotropic pressures, questions of how one best achieves the desired levels of irradiation.
And now, progress. Arrive at matters of the first water, country of origin, sodium light & fire now equally the product of crown height, angle, interplay of facets across the pavilion, polish and symmetry.
Zayne Turner grew up in the rural High Desert of Oregon. She is the author of the chapbook Memory of My Mouth, available from dancing girl press. Her work can be found online in places like Ancora Imparo, Coldfront, or Poecology, and her virtual workspace: zayne.posterous.com.
Yellow cake uranium photo courtesy Shutterstock.