Filing Tooth by Tooth

Filing, Tooth By Tooth

After this look down…

Your hands! Only your hands!

A pure contradiction,

a pure blessing.

Everything you learned

has come to nothing.

                                    David Whyte

                          Seven Steps for Coming Home

While I slept you sharpened

the chain-

saw blade you made

ash and hackmatack and blue

spruce and maple seem easy

to handle the way you were sure in their felling

how you made the most precise angle

at the near base

of the tree how you listened

and stood and the wind told you

and the elastic snap told you (and you told me once

                                                                remembering

                                                                how you heard a man’s jaw

                                                                make that same

                                                                                                sound

                                                                                after he’d made or tried to make

                                                                                                                off with your wife

and it went down through the rest

the man and the tree

of all the standing men and trees

defeated branches and limbs

finished

beseeching

quick work that makes her

all the hers

naked and you say it’s all in

the sharp

                ness

of the teeth on the chain

and all evening most evenings

you file and oil

                the tannin of your day making

                sachets in the air and your whole day’s

work in your plaid

                                sweat and motor oil and sawdust

                and scuffed up boots and you look through

each tooth and you make one stand out

above the rest with a dab of mum’s red

nail polish

                                time after time the hover of your unguided spot on eyed angle

                the count of the push ahead

                the count of the push ahead

                the count of the push ahead

a tongue on your upper lip concentration

and George Jones

                                                on 8 track in the background

                                he’s playing at playing round

                                                                at glass after glass of whiskey and women

while you file straight across the teeth

one one one and raise your thumb

every time to gauge the strength of your morning.

You’ve never once dropped a chain

running it all too hot.  Every plug is clean

as brand new and you pull it all

into the living

flesh of your own woods and play the grim

God selecting

which ones you’ll cut today and pull

the chord and pull the trigger

and walk into all that other silence sharp

ready to bring it down

hack the limbs drag it out in chains

to cut it

stack it

dry it

burn it

all

piece      

                                by

                                                piece

species blending into species

depending on how hot you want

your fire.