I stripped rugged imperfections
From four squares of cherry
Two of Spruce. Angles impatiently sawed,
Then, glued, fitting awkwardly into place.
My brain repulses geometrical thoughts.
Never will these sides glide from corners.
The red-washed dust from sanding hands
Brushes off to find a fresh coat.
The stained surface is rubbed clean—
Stripped so not to hurt any other
With upended splinters and rough parts.
The parts that will never find love;
The parts that hurt her creator’s hand.
A stranger, I must be, to remnants
Of life older than I am destined.
Yet, it is these hands, which give
As much flesh as she.
So I sand her down.
The gaps left from amateur eyes
Find fulfillment in glue-wrapped floor dust.
Patience paired with raw-rubbed fingers
Hide the obscenities well. None would
Be wiser of its imperfect creation.
This box, I’ve made, holds firm;
Beautiful and mine, a testament it is to
A steady hand and creative mind.
The motley contrast is to be ignored.
Different scraps tossed, glued, and
Worn thin till nothing but beauty
Would perception receive.
Polite compliments given of dull sight.
Never will they love the sting of splinters
Wedged betwixt untested skin.
Crimson drops stain the edges.
I see her falseness.
She marked my hands
As much as I marked her.
Creation requires sacrificial serenity.
Scratched edges and imperfect cracks
Tells tales of tracks left behind.
It remains a box,
Holding my pages.
2 thoughts on “Red-Dyed Sawdust”