Unfinished Heart

It was a warm day,
at least in memory.
The dank apartment air
filled with stained cherry,
shaved walnut,
and thick lacquer in three coats--
the smell that never left your hands,
along with Marlboro and Stolichnaya
and gasoline.
Are you why I relish in the smell?
The scents mixed
with mildew and dust,
buttered bread and soap,
and hugged me tight around the chest
like a warm blanket on a cold night.

 

To crawl upon you then,
on hands and knees,
like an intrusion on a sacred ritual,
like witnessing the creation
of the first man--
was a privilege.
The great creator,
driving your wood plane across a board,
sending sheets of curled shavings
flying through the air.
Sawdust splinters found their way
between fingers,
on palms and knees and shins.
Mom always said--
''splinters go into your blood
and up to your heart''
as she pried them from my skin.
I've always been afraid of splinters since.

 

You remember that warm day?
The day I saw your heart
at the bottom of the lily-covered lake?
Whose tranquility was only broken
by eager oars
and duck feet paddling,
and cast lines that
buoyed on the surface.
Kind light flooded our eyes,
reflecting in the humidity of the air--
balmy and sweet, smelling of seaweed
and earth and moss-covered bark--
almost palpable, like you.
In silence we watched the sky, water, air,
trees, lilies, lines, ducks, each other--
waiting for our catch.

 

Perhaps the splinters did
find their way in,
and that's why it's ached since,
deep inside, a pain
doctors couldn't diagnose.
So I sat in children's hospitals
waiting for a miracle cure
for an existential illness.
And maybe that's why now,
I desperately dig out my flesh
to retrieve the bits of wood
that swim tirelessly
towards my heart.

 

I waited silently until you flashed
your eyes and smiled.
Teeth white against the dark brown
mess of facial hair
and sun-stained skin.
Standing over your masterpiece--
your hexagonal stool
with chiseled, beveled edges
scalloped like the shiny curls of your
overgrown hair.
Multi-colored flower petals
inlaid into the seat--
thin, shaved and sanded so flat
that with eyes closed,
the hand could not discern
where the design began.
Your body sweated pride--
beading on your forehead.
You were happy then,
with the art you'd sired.

 

Crisp, cold air came upon us,
like a hunger that cocooned us
and swallowed us up whole.
And as the sky got darker, it was
time to feel our way back out of paradise
with blind eyes, and seeing hands.
The fish, strung on a rope
were now pulled up,
but turtles got there first
and only rainbow heads remained,
staring up with gleaming eyes
that reflected now
only the last bit of light
still left hanging in the sky.
Oh, sweet fruitless day--
it melted into a red and purple swirl
at our backs,
as we drove down roads
that winded through dark corridors
carved into the forest,
back to a home where we filled
our bellies with food we didn't catch
and told our stories.

 

I sat upon your stool,
feet curled around the legs,
tipping side to side
drawing the birch trees at the table.
I could still smell you on it,
as you've forever gotten intertwined
within the fibers,
and your eyes glared
through the knots I traced
mindlessly with an index finger.

 

I sat--
with my big wooden heart,
inside its big barrel chest,
heavy and logged with blood,
and memories and dreams.
Chiseled and beveled--
another masterpiece,
but one you never got to finish,
since you never went back
to carving wood
again.

 

 

https://oc.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4ftk2s/balloons/

 

https://oc.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/4fsj4q/shoulder_to_cry_on/