Oil, Blood, Water

Electricity whisked through copper loops
And insulated lines, a coursing stasis,
The only kind. Black sawdust sifted
As thoughts gnawed through the iron mind.
Three thousand years ago in the hills,
A pastoralist people attributed magical
Healing and cleansing power to blood, oil,
And water. Why? More surging current,
More iron filings filtered down. The oil
Was likely always vegetable, in which case
Notice the triad of essential fluids, the types,
Animal, vegetable, and mineral. The smith
Spoke, sotto voce, to the devil as to himself.
There are two kinds of magic, he hissed.
The sort I practice, with your help, sir,
The sort that makes for tools and weapons
Because it works. Then there’s the cultic
Sort that’s hopeless and makes no sense
And shouldn’t be valued at all, but appeals
To some mysterious need that tools
And weapons don’t fulfill. The devil hummed,
Happily. The electricity was his, as had been
The kiln fires in those villages of believers
In oil, blood, and water, three thousand years
Before. He knew what the smith could only
Bargain for. The second magic’s meant for itself,
My metaphorical friend. It wasn’t meant for you.