Sawdust

by Vivek Sharma

 

Beneath the layers

& layers of cold cellulose, lies

a handful of tomorrow:

 

dust motes, swirling

in a vortex, lifting

to meet the hand

that holds the handle

of a jigsaw, the teeth

sinking into the wood—

 

you pause to look beneath

the hairline cracks, a life

you thought you left behind

but still clings to the skin

like these hardwood grains—

 

workshop-quarks, Higgs boson

at the end of time, binding

the remains, gluing your life

into an amorphous mass—

 

as the overhead bulb flutters

in the first kiss: blossoms

of an early-blush apricot

you still remember, those soft

autumn mornings, waking

to meet the tenderness curled

beside you, his heartbeat

in the hollow of your hands—

 

the tenderness is now

hardened with years

of grief, crystallized like your

thoughts that rise to meet you

as you lie in bed, night after night,

thinking of sawdust

 

& a pencil-thin stem

of apricot, making its way

into the cold earth, unsure

of the unborn flowers

it holds within.