18 September 2006 | Vol. 6, No. 3

carved the lark

by ERICA W. ADAMS

i guess i'm poor at the whittling, longish fingers make oak into sparrow, i tend to rub elm smooth & pretend forests & birdsongs when i should dig the knife in, uproot the form, concentrate on shape-shaping, be a natural alchemist—not this conjurer of thought (my only currency).

spend an hour on the hangnail of creation till you get what you'd like: perfection is an easy option in the rocking chair made of hours & bound legs, roped discipline for the sitting. back & forth the sharp & made doves of twig & blood, precise, all for the smoothing.

should-should is the language of a skull-bird, a wooden perhaps, the curve of lips in advice, you know that song: should-should makes a statue, should-should paints it gloss, should-should puts it on the shelf & begins again.