Saw blade
with the strength of two and a half
electrical mules
kicks back my piece of wood
like a hoof in the groin.
The first sound from my lips
as I double over
comes not from the brain
but directly from pain
to throat
to the indifferent air:
a guttural crack
like the cry
of a falling tree.
YOU ARE READING
Construction Zone
PoetryThere's dirt under my fingernails, sawdust in my hair. I'm proud to say I hammer nails. Install toilets. Hang drywall. Welcome to the construction zone. Note: I've had to "unpublish" a few poems from this collection because they are going to appear...
