The Exact Middle

The blade bites in with a high, dry scream,

tearing through the pine and the old grain.

I’m making a shelf for a different dream,

in a room that doesn't smell of rain.

One half for you, one half for me to keep,

the math of a house that finally split.

The sawdust gathers in a pale, soft heap,

and I am standing in the thick of it.

It settles in the creases of my boots,

a fine, white powder from the heart of the wood.

We’re pulling up the floorboards and the roots,

just to see if staying apart is good.