What I Did to the Frame

I held the saw like it was a sin,

like I shouldn't begin.

The frame was just a frame, too big,

and my partner said make it fit.

So I lined it up,

and the blade went through

like the wood had been waiting

for someone to split it in two.

The dust rose up.

I pushed through.

And I felt the weight

of that choice, the particular ache

of destroying something

that couldn't be rebuilt,

of going from thinking about it

to actually doing it.

It's two frames now.

Smaller. Better.

But I keep seeing

the moment before the cut,

keep feeling the saw,

keep knowing

I made that choice

and it can't be reversed,

can't be undone,

can't be anything but

the thing I decided

to destroy.