To wake the sparrow and nuthatch
from the oak stump, he hums
in key with the handsaw.
Never a word about his wife,
a carving he made and married.
She took his light touch personally,
envied the flaws his fingers
savored on others as unique.
With stolen chisels and his mallet
she hobbles into the deep woods
and makes herself into a harp.
She circles the head of a feral
cat around and around, uses
its intestines as strings.
Driftwood is chosen for tone,
pinegum for glue and perfume.
While she dries in the day,
the woodworkers thrives in new grain.
The knots remind him of his wife:
an imperfection nature granted
his calloused hands to clinch
with salt or leave disturbed.
Let the noise in your head surface if it can.
The tongue and teeth suffer each syllable
as anger raises the voltage in decibels--
Your boy dirtied your ears, claiming he's a man.
Nothing unusual...Your father did it,
husband too. All men fall
into the bed of a slut, led by their balls.
Even your son, that little shit!
Lie. Throw him in a black hole
where the memory of home becomes grace.
Tell him the music he hears is real
and ignoring it shows a weakness of soul.
Let his actions smash him in the face.
Let him feed the whore his daughter's meal.