by Melissa Gammill
I remember the wood
held softly in your hands
-the screaming saws
slicing planks into masterpieces.
The splinters sank deep in your skin,
a part of your everyday being.
You were always covered in dust back then
-a luminous smile only for your new creations.
You were God in your workshop of heavens.
You were Him with your plans for our world.
the small wooden pieces
gather dust on their shelves
as the hope chest filled with dreams
sits immobile in our little bedroom.
Your hands bleed idleness
-my splinters remain in your skin.
the pieces fit together once more
-this time, a creation of my own.
Seems you were Him in the workshop for me,
while I was Eve
with intentions etched deep
-determined to try a new wood
while carving out our eternal damnation.