The table speaks

His hand on me 

appraising wood and grain, 

heft and sturdiness, 

carpenter’s wisdom,

His thumb on me

planing sturdy planks and joints, 

found the catch 

undid my certainties


I take no hurt from him, 

hear the tumbling percussion 

of coins as they fall. 

Without the patina of hands and bargains 

smoothing the wooden surface 

my rough hewn underbelly 

lies exposed to his gaze 

His touch calls 

memory of the young green 

the tree alive within me


I no longer uphold 

the shrewd calculation of the past 

That is over

I turn towards a new way.

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