Interpretive Woodcarving

 
I was at a plein air art show last fall
and at first,
I dismissed the sculptor
at the end
of the row,  
with his hewn statuettes
amid the pretension
of watercolor and
bubble-gum-wrapper genius
 
But he might have been the best,  
the one with the most soul.
 
I found myself with the crowd
mesmerized as he fired up
the chainsaw,  
and transformed
a round hunk of dead tree
into something with a form
and a presence,
into something
living,
something
beautiful.
 
His motions were definitive,
as he wrenched Venus
from a stump,
and I was hypnotized by
the need to
 
utterly destroy the stump
 
to uncover its  
hidden masterpiece.
 
Even as the tool in his hands
etched fine lines,
it chewed and gnawed and cut,
it chopped and grated and
chipped the stump into shavings and lint;
into dust that settled on the spectators’ skin
and was brushed  
into air.  
 
It was brazen and harsh and lovely
the way destruction  
preceded creation.  
 
There was no force,  
no scream-at-me-from-the-television-buy-this
super-glue that could ever,
ever,
recreate that stump,
could ever set it back to right
with every bit of it back in place.
 
I wonder if the stump  
screamed when it saw the artist,
or if it sighed against the
destructive caress.  
I wonder if the stump  
closed its eyes.  
 
I wonder if you’ve noticed that
my eyes are closed,  
the rev of blades  
quiet in the  
background,  
 
as I wait for you to
trace my sighing lips
with the bloodied edge
of your thumb.