When I was a child, I spent most of my time at the Cincinnati Gum Works, watching my father sit beneath a hot boiler plate. The plate was attached to several elbow-shaped tubes that emitted a wisp of thick steam. Grasping the tubes for support, Father would dip a long forking tool into a scalding red liquid, then carefully apply it to small molds that were kept on a ledge underneath the time clock, occasionally rubbing the forking tool on the boiler plate to renew its palpable texture density (or so I was told later). I was not allowed to speak in the gum works, but the silent, powerful actions of the factory were loud enough. I have seventeen smiling scars on my face and neck that, to this day, speak a verbose charm poetry that refuses to be quieter.
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