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Laura, Toucan Editrice

Friday, December 28, 2012

Poem of the Week: Splitting Wood, Tony Burnett

I’m not supposed to do this.
The muscles tighten
around the restructured spine.
Hand eye coordination reclaimed.
Sinewy arms regain control.
The maul finds the mark.

The muscles tighten.
“Let the tool do the work.”
my father’s ghost, admonishing.
Gravity on iron
Sharpened edge
seeking rift inside the grain.

“Let the tool do the work.”
Guided by muscles, atrophied
a laggard recovery. Titanium,
modern pharmacology, a year lost
to opium visitations,
mattresses, somnambulism.

Guided by muscles,
Crisp air fills lungs, replacing
the rancid humidity of sickness.
Sunlight excites pale skin
as maul’s edge penetrates oak.
Alive, again. Vital, again.

I am supposed to do this.
One cord, One day. One life.

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