Dividing the Assets

The doorframe is a mouth that refuses to swallow.

The pine is too wide for this new, narrow life,

so I brought the hand saw from the trunk.

The teeth bite deep into the grain,

a rhythmic, angry scratching that fills the hall.

It’s not a clean break.

The smell of hot, friction-burned wood

sticks to the back of my throat.

Yellow sawdust coats my damp knuckles

like a fine, golden grit.

I am cutting the thing in two

just so I can keep the pieces.

Better to have a ruined table

than to let a stranger take the weight of it.