But I love the I， steel I-beam

    that my father sold. They poured the pig iron

    into the mold， and it fed out slowly，

    a bending jelly in the bath， and it hardened，

    Bessemer， blister， crucible， alloy， and he

    marketed it， and bought bourbon， and Cream

    of Wheat， its curl of butter right

    in the middle of its forehead， he paid for our dresses

    with his metal sweat， sweet in the morning

    and sour in the evening. I love the I，

    frail between its flitches， its hard ground

    and hard sky， it soars between them

    like the soul that rushes， back and forth，

    between the mother and father. What if they had loved each other，

    how would it have felt to be the strut

    joining the floor and roof of the truss？

    I have seen， on his shirt-cardboard， years

    in her desk， the night they made me， the penciled

    slope of her temperature rising， and on

    the peak of the hill， first soldier to reach

    the crest， the Roman numeral I——

    I， I， I， I，

    girders of identity， head on，

    embedded in the poem. I love the I

    for its premise of existence——our I——when I was

    born， part gelid， I lay with you

    on the cooling table， we were all there， a

    forest of felled iron. The I is a pine，

    resinous， flammable root to crown，

    which throws its cones as far as it can in a fire.