by Chandonnet, Ann. "Splitting Wood." Northward Journal: A Quarterly of Northern Arts, Alaskan Art & Writing, Number 21/22, August 1981, 55.
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Splitting Wood
Anger's impossible
after splitting wood.
Bile flows out along the human trunk,
the arms, and ax handle
into the cleavages of birch and spruce,
into the neatly stacked cords
and the pleasing litter of chips
upon the snow.
The more lengths split,
the more I become whole:
joints cease their clatter;
rifts slide shut.
Lacking shoulders,
I turn scientific,
teasing the lengths
atop the block
until they come level.
Then my little force
runs straight down the grain.
The bore holes of twigs
are clean as laser burns.
Swelling branches spawn massive roils,
marbled end papers.
Force is balked by these conjunctions.
Wood splits just to them
and no further...
like roads deadending
at skewed headlands.
On the pile reclines a straight young arm;
beneath, a knotty fist of aged wood,
liver spots of decay staining its pale grain.
Some knotfree layers separate
clean as onion rings,
revealing breast-sleek silk.
Few things concentrate and empty the body so,
both engage and free.
Blows echo from the trees around;
a scrap of inner bark
glows pink as a conch.
ANN CHANDONNET
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