Woodcutter

by Erin Emily Ann Vance

For Mark

You flick sap from your beard

and I breathe in the forest

from the crook of your arm.

You hold me like the spruce holds a moth,

your boreal mouth the offshoot

of thick, honeyed air.

You sleep with your lips ajar

and in your breath I hear the whip

of the branches as they fall,

the whir of the chainsaw

and your sigh, your grunt,

your coaxing, your whispers

bouncing off bark like a child's prayer

before an operation.

You sculpt her and your cuts are

ribbons on the forest floor.

You whimper in your sleep and your fingers

reach for me, sticky

with the relief of trees and rough

from the ache of metal on wood.