My brother was a carpenter,
with wood-stained hands—
more cedar than cherry.
What's a hard wood?
I'm not the carpenter.
I can only use a saw
with help.
He had wooden talent.
His rawness was built
into the heartstrings in his palms.
The psalms face his black shoulders,
and I ask his forgiveness
for boxing him in hard plastic.
I'm not the carpenter.
Inspired/prompted by "Isaac's Remains"
Thursday, September 13, 2012
Wednesday, September 12, 2012
Sapless
She cradles her hands
against her ribs
with the trying tenderness of a child with a fallen robin's egg.
Her shoes have worn themselves to
a smell like leather drying
over
and over
in the ceaseless sun of a never
gained distance.
Drying her toes,
the curve of her ankle,
the sediment of her calf,
and huddling
into the crook of her knee.
She walks on air;
stings herself
without feeling the rivers of mud
drying her hip,
her waist,
and two false ribs.
The egg falls.
Her lips meet across the scorpion weed.
Inspiration
against her ribs
with the trying tenderness of a child with a fallen robin's egg.
Her shoes have worn themselves to
a smell like leather drying
over
and over
in the ceaseless sun of a never
gained distance.
Drying her toes,
the curve of her ankle,
the sediment of her calf,
and huddling
into the crook of her knee.
She walks on air;
stings herself
without feeling the rivers of mud
drying her hip,
her waist,
and two false ribs.
The egg falls.
Her lips meet across the scorpion weed.
Inspiration
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