Getting even, with wood – poem

my hands make noises when I’m excited,

they do,

they pirouette as dancers round the index to make

their point, grab

for a chisel to thrust the wood,

pull saw teeth back and plunge into grain,

preparing to sweat and to swear, preparing to

right all wrongs done to my body

to wipe away, with a hand gesture,

all perceived insults

to my face

dean fogal