|Apr/May 2019 Poetry|
Excerpted imagery from photography by Kris Saknussemm
My father hammered with words
My father hammered with words,
thinking with his fisted hammer,
shouting and singing and laughing,
plotting his army of two-by-
fours to conquer chaos,
conducting sound business
with the cold, hard currency of nails.
He forced angles to concur,
planed raw wood into roof beams
from trees he cut down himself,
a whole local language
pounded and sawed and nailed
He made that house speak walls
and gape at the world
through the awe of windows
and clutch at the world
like a hungry beast in the wind.
He taught me
the limits of things
and their power.
Even his swear words as he nailed
swirled round and round our home
like bats determined to haunt us
with mysterious life.