The Old Saw

• Mornings I wake the old saw,
• Hand on its heavy side, body braced
• Against its rumble—
• Cold to the touch, fading green,
• Smelling faintly of iron always, and decades
• Of work turned to rot in its carcass

• Smelling too of fresh sawdust, my sweat, hot maple
• As it heaves with and against me.

• The old thing’s turned forgiving with age,
• Or lame—stuttering when provoked, letting
• The brattiest cuts through with a little easing,
• Never kicking back at me. Still

• I try and quiet my coaxing. Close my mouth
• Around sweetheart, darling, dove—

• Bad form to pretend to have tamed
• A strong creature, even an old one,
• Even a lame one, and I like my fingers besides.

• It’s only that sometimes
• Kneeling in dim winter light
• One hand on the switch and the other
• On that workworn hulking body,

• Still half-asleep myself, I find that I’m helpless
• To feed it a soft word or two, slowly, gently

• Just to ease us both awake, in the cold morning.

Photo by Dominik Scythe from Unsplash.