Blank
My
father was a quarryman, hands at home
On
a welded wheel, fingers stiff, waiting for sun
To
clear the lip of the pit, an artist is his own way
Content
to read the grain through an emery palm
Leaving
the rest to rain and wind. My mother on
the other
Hand
was a chiseler with a syncopated mallet
No
stranger to the fluter and veiner, fine dust felting
Her
coffee, laboring late, ankle deep in drifting flake
Humming
as
she whittled down to the quick.
This
morning, seeing my chance, right hand freed
In
the wee, wee hours, I hacked out feet and a face
Only
a mother could love, raking footprints clean as I left.
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