HEARTWOOD

HEARTWOOD

The stern sycamore slid when the river’s bank quit,

liquefying into quick molasses in the '13 flash flood.

One thick mottled branch cracked, drifted on

ripples over stones lain over with

stories the stones don’t remember.

A chisel-jawed man, callous-handed, sat

on a sheet rock where the branch rested.

He hauled it home up Jackson hill.

For nigh on a year he worked his old steel knife,

a finger he loved at his arm’s end.

He scraped it dull, sharpened it again. And

after each stroke he sighed, after each keening

scrape peeled wood that dropped to his feet.

He set his jaw, then looked round the room, quiet

as he’d been since she left for somewhere.

He held it, the fine-sculpted handle he’d made into a broom

to sweep away the heartwood.