The Cut

The saw goes through the wood,

and there's that moment when it should

already be finished, but it's not,

when the two pieces are caught

by the smallest strip of grain,

the thinnest thread holding the strain,

still whole.

And then I push.

The teeth bite through the fiber,

and what was one becomes the other—

two separate things,

two pieces that my hands still bring

together, but only by choice now,

only because I allow

the holding.

The wood is warm.

The break is done.

The form

is no longer one.

I'm standing here with both the parts,

still touching, but torn apart,

still warm from friction,

still struggling with the fiction

that they might somehow go back.

They won't.