The Unfinished Box

I count the chisels,

line them by their weight

The tax assessment

sits beside the gate

A cedar chest, half-planed,

the joints undone

Just sawdust waiting

for the winter sun

A folded scrap of paper on the floor

With numbers penciled near the heavy door

My name is at the top,

the lines are clear

Three feet by six,

the bed I had that year

I learned your language when you ran out of time to hear

it (mmmmm)

At nine years old

I watched your pencil trace

The double mark to keep the cut in place

I thought you hesitated in the cold But now my soft

uncalloused hands unfold

To hold the heavy handle of your blade

And try to find the angles that you made I find the

ledger where you kept the score

Of every frame and joist and cedar door

The final line is written in your hand

Just my name, and the box that we had planned

I learned your language when you ran out of time to hear

it

The lid is on,

the wood is dark and oil-dry

The corners meet but do not quite align

And when it drops it makes a heavy sound

Like dinner-time, and shadows on the ground I learned your language when

you ran out of time to hear it