From inside the house, I hear
over by the woodshed
the steady sound of a maul
as it thwunks down
and splits
a chunk of oak, again and again
a muffled
heartbeat sound—
and I get it, how judging one another
works
the analytical split
it makes
how irrevocable the cleaving
and even if the split makes
cordwood
possible
there’s also fire to come, and smoke
a toxic residue
in the air around each word I speak out
or imply in judgment
A suicide may leap free of another’s
judging
and fall into
the mystery of the human heart
But what if it’s common sense
what if it’s clear
what if even a child, or especially a child
would say
Stop!
How to do it, how hold
in balance
what misses the mark
and what hits it
How know without censure
how see the open wound
and the salt already in it
and refuse
to add a pinch more
And there’s this enigma—
the heart
seems to need to be split
by error
even shattered
I’m only human
one may say, and I might say that, too
We might stand in a human chorus
and mutter it, over and over
But how put a stop to what harms
how make whole
how raise the maul and bring it down
and make
a break so clean one can
(reaching beyond what can or can’t
be known)
touch what is.
Margaret Gibson is the author of twelve books of poetry, most recently Not Hearing the Wood Thrush (LSU). She is currently poet laureate of Connecticut.
