Divided

It wouldn't go through the frame.

I tilted it, took the legs off,

tried to pivot the heavy oak

until the paint on the door started to flake.

Now I’m on my knees with a handsaw.

The teeth bite in with a dry screech,

chewing through the grain

because the room is too small for the past.

Pale sawdust is gathering on the linoleum.

It looks like spilled salt,

or the remains of a very long dinner

where nobody spoke.

The wood gives way.

It’s easier to break a thing

than to find a bigger house.