Saw

Richard Fox

I am substituting lack for love

in all of my love poems, since

I loved you when you could

not love yourself, & I forgave

you after I had forgiven myself.

Your curled fists—small croiss-

ants at the ends of your arms—

& your sparrow fingers (little

beggars) come ‘round after the

crumbs from my breakfast:

the all of your body—sonnet-

shaped—& those blunt, perfect

toes & their beautiful nails hid-

den in blue–gray allbirds; your

tattoo, blued over the front of

your left thigh; hair, a spun

wonder under your black cap.

After your father’s stroke, he

called the brace on his left leg

his hurricane lamp—your see

for his saw—lighting such blue-

veined intricacy as you might

find on a road map. You loved

him, didn’t you—you might say

you lacked him—& his primal

howl (his rage) showed you

the inside of his mouth, as red

as meat.

RICHARD FOX has been a regular contributor of poetry and visual art to online and print literary journals. He has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize and for the Best of the Web award, and is the author of the poetry collection, Swagger & Remorse. He resides in Salt Lake City, UT.