| CURRENT
ISSUE |
| |
| FEATURES |
| |
| |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| ABOUT
US |
|
|
| |
| |
|
|
| |
|
|
| SERVICES |
| |
| |
|
|
|
|
|
Holiday Bunting
He has handled the new piece like a stone,
has rubbed it, has worried the wood-work, he
has nicked with his nail the softening flesh,
and hours now in the hands of the whittler
the cube of white ash has taken on wings,
evidence of a slight, blunted beak, whorls
in the wood-grain where feathers will follow,
trimmed, sanded, blued into detail, and dried.
It is greasy with the whittler's palm oils.
From the front porch it is Saturday, noon,
and white-hot with sunlight. July the 4th.
He has worked through the parade, the speeches,
the blue-smoking floats and fiddlers' show,
the town done up in flags, whipping like wheat,
the route roped off red-ragged in front of his house.
In flight the small bird is likely to blur,
quick to the air, blue wind, lost in a crowd.
But who holds it with his hands has captured
wild by a wing. Who carves the knuckled claw-
feet cut out of splinters, out of ash bark,
can stand up for himself for as long as
he wishes and bourbon to kill the close heat.
He makes a nest of shavings when he stands,
stretches, settles back down in his good chair.
And when the bird is finished, no more tail
feathers to sharpen, touch up with edging,
he will hand it around to the children
then release it to the night's keeping next
to the knife, whetted, washed, on the porch rail--
and all gone by morning, banner, noise, bird.
--David Baker
|
|
home