Jack

by Sara Backer

I have become the smaller flag on a ship,

the shorter rafters of a roof, a knave

in a pack of cards. I wear a skimpy coat,

tall leather boot, and leather drinking flask.

I am captured in a child's game

and hit when grown men gamble.

I am what they call a tame ape.

I was a common man

whose job was to lift weight.

Mechanical devices that replaced

my muscles took my job and pay

and more—they took my human name.

And I, who used to pull

my master's boots, hoist meat

and turn the spit, work the roller

and the winch, climb the steeple,

strike the bell and connect lines

in telephone exchange, am a daw,

the tiniest of crows, gathering

loose sticks to nest in castle ruins.

The solace of six centuries—and still—

is once, on a high and windy hill,

beside a well that was clear and full,

I kissed a girl named Gylle.