Oil

I

I use grease
for the axle of my wheelbarrow
the track of my printing press
the nipples of my car’s pinions
lubricating oil for the tendons
     of my typecaster.
I use heavy oil
for the gears of my printing press
and the great pressing wheel
     of my bindery boards
penetrating oil
for the hinges of the house doors
the car doors, the typewriter keys
oil to keep the hoe from rusting
     and my rake and my little trowel
linseed oil, boiled to keep
     the paint from drying
           raw to keep
     the outside steps from rotting
neatsfoot oil for my old shoes.

II

When I was born
they had the oils all prepared
chrism for my confirmation
oil of the catechumens for my baptism
“Be opened,” they said and rubbed oil
between my shoulder blades
so I could be supple and strong
and oil for the sick
for my eyelids and earlobes
for my nostrils and thin dry lips
for my stained hands and tired feet
food for a long journey.

III

They say that oil and water
     won’t mix
but when I was born
they put olive oil scented with balsam
in the sea water of my mother’s womb
they put ink there and pads of paper
a hammer, a ruler
a type case full of lead
and when I was thirteen
they added drysand and woodash
they sprinkled limedust and sawdust
in my amazed mouth.
When I was a man
they heaped flaked soot
from the ovens of Germany
splinters from the coffins of traitors
they dug out rotting books
from the burned libraries
and made me lie there.

IV

But I went to work
and took care of myself
discovering cracks in the shank
of my potato hook and the dibble
I use to prick holes in the ground
     for fall bulbs
I heard my lawn mower squeak
and worried about tar on my saw.
Soon I was oiling everything
I know I use too much:
mineral oil for my stomach pains
wintergreen for my bent neck.
They say there is a shortage of oil
     in the world today
soon there won’t be enough to go around
and I worry with everyone else
about our needy shovels and
our neglected lives
and what to sustain us
on that last abrasive journey
through the treeless sand.

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This poem originally appeared in Paintbrush, and is reprinted with kind permission.

— Ed.