Dad
Tom chops wood and disappears,
often, into the forest.
Once, while he was still pretending to be around,
Tom agreed to care for me for a day.
This, of course, meant chopping wood
while I watched in the hot sun.
He handed me a hatchet when I offered
just light enough for my then tiny hands.
Kindling can be chopped into pellets and
no smaller, I found.
I could hear brush crackling among alders,
but I was too hot and tired to find him.
Out of sticks, I wondered:
how sharp is this axe? and noticed:
my fingers were exactly the size of tinder.
And then, the tip of my pinkie:
scarlet and loose and new! I ran quietly
and hid long beneath my mother's bed.
Gradually, my mind wandered,
and my hand, clenched in wet pillow
became imagined memory. I thought
perhaps, blood could go back if it chose.
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