Carving Ourselves a Life

Carving Ourselves a Life

For me, you once whittled a quill
but I thought you were chipping
pieces of me, leaving my dreams
in curls of bark, as you shaped me
into the perfect wife. 
That’s what I thought then.
But I was wrong.  It wasn’t me
you were chiseling.

I watch you, the man I love,
leaving a trail of sawdust in your wake. 
Your chisel hangs from your belt, ringing.
The words of your father pound in your head,
the hammer waiting to come down
on your shoulders, your chest, the weight
unbearable, the back under strain.
You are in pain.  And I can do nothing

but watch as it kills you, the stress, the worry,
the never-ending responsibility of being you.
I want to pry that chisel from your hand,
and put it on vibrate, while I lead you to a garden
you didn’t have to grow, and don’t have to weed. 
I want to show you a single flower, graceful yet strong,
strong enough to break through the sidewalk,
and concrete that yielded for a mere flower.

I want to show you the beauty of the stars,
the smallness of all that is, right this minute,
stealing your life, your energy.
I want to take the curls of bark and wood
you have piled around your heels,
and piece them back together again,
to find the man you are, beneath the man
you’ve had to become to get the job done.

But you are the man I love, the one I married,
and wishing you were something else
is a betrayal to you and to us.
So I sit and bear witness to this masterpiece
you are crafting; good provider, good father,
good businessman, good son.  But I wish you knew
that already, you are all of these things in my eyes. 

When we married, we wanted to carve out a future
for ourselves and the children we planned to have. 
So you carve yourself into a better boss, better provider,
and I sit by, wishing I was a better wife,
that I could cheer you up, relieve the burden. 
Sometimes I fear that there won’t be anything left
for us or our children when we finish carving ourselves
into what others want us to be.


SWPoet