The Turning Mechanism

a poem by Roger B. Rueda

Life is a factory of trials,

a slow-moving belt where hands, warm or calloused,

reach for what is given—water or stone.

Some wake to the scent of morning,

to the hush of bread rising, the soft swell

of a child’s breath against their skin.

Some wake to hunger, to doors bolted shut,

to the weight of nights that bear no answers,

only the hard arithmetic of survival.

Here, love moves like a thread through linen,

pulling strangers into the shape of a family.

Here, love is a lamp in a hallway,

left burning for someone still finding their way home.

But the machine does not run on love alone.

In another room, the air is thick with iron,

words sharpened like cutlery, the cold press of rage

against a ribcage.

Some hoard light and call it power,

lock the doors and count their victories

in the ruin of others. Some burn bridges

and call the ashes justice.

The machine does not choose.

It only turns, rusted and relentless,

offering a thousand doors—each one a question,

each one an answer waiting to be made.

And always, the choice:

to close a fist, or to open it.

To build a wall, or to break it.

To love, or to leave love waiting.

The machine does not wait.

But you do.