October 1998, in retrospect

Jagged and noisy
like the dented blade of an axe
like the one you once swung wildy near your uncle’s cabin in the woods
trying to remove a padlock from a chain link fence at the water tower
the same one you later pulled downwards in an unskilled, violent, angry swing,
aiming to split a log.

and when this log unexpectedly and effortlessly gave way
the cold axe (full of your anger and frustration)
followed its arc undisturbed through your foot, furrowing the soft soil beneath

in the moments before blood began to flow
you stared dumb, terrified, silent, unable to conjure any red-faced swears,
simply looking through the kitchen window
where you knew i would be washing dishes
and wanting in that moment only
(perhaps in your entire life)
to not be alone

you now walk with a limp
and (no more, no less) anger, frustration, or terror in your heart,
for the earth, for the frailty of your own body,
for the god you fear and miss and hate
who even now lives in you.