how to end up just like your father
I fuel the fireplace through winter
burning my eyes
like trying to look too closely at the sun
so hot, my hands look just like my father’s:
chef’s hands - numb.
He showed me how to hold a hatchet
to carve my body into new shapes
how to chisel away until years disappear
and all that’s left are
splinters on the floor.
The ax forgets
like the tool it is
but now my body embodies all of the things
I swore I wouldn’t
become.
You can’t unlearn how to split
yourself into pieces,
just to become kindling
In someone else's
fire.