Impersonating the Carpenter’s Apprentice
I sit on the third step up from the basement floor,
feet planted on the first, elbows planted on
my knees, watching as your hand
brushes up and down the raw wood, each
touch of your palm liberating shimmer wet with
the scent of hillsides under pines
sometimes breath simply stops when you settle
a long board down on top of the workbench,
and rest one hand along its length
as if to steady it, to calm the spirits within,
as you reach for your saw, the precise
mark you’ve made appearing
in the light dancing down from the dusty
basement windows, making of the
wood a gleaming body,
resting willing and open beneath your
hand, shaped like clay, polished
like silver, worshiped
like thighs against dark colored sheets
breathing in unison, moving
towards the shape
you both desire.
Learning the Apostle’s Creed
“Metal conducts heat,” Dad would say, as he lined up a pile
of spoons in his coffee cup, placing them in a precise
circle to cool the steaming liquid enough to drink
Around the table, faces gazed down at breakfast plates with
uncertain smiles, unsure whether this was real science,
or something Dad had once been told
The silver bowls of the spoons rested around the rim, all
facing inward, so that they seemed to form the petals of
a silver flower, like a half-opened tulip
He did this every morning through health and illness, in his
mechanic’s jumper on the way to work, or in the striped
pajamas he wore later,
building his silver flower, then dismantling it when a finger,
plunged quick into the cup, spoke of liquid warm but not
biting, each spoon then laid aside to bloom
again in a cloud of steam another day - like the day when, the
silver tulip half-complete, his arm drifts to the table,
a spoon still in his limp hand, and then
stillness.
From the far end of the table, our mother calls his name. And
again,
again,
again - panic rising in her voice
No one can breathe, afraid to look at either of them
It would be weeks later that he actually died, but that morning
around the table, in the air above a half-finished silver
tulip, we felt him go
Later, I leaned against his chest, cheek against the soft flannel,
the scent of medicine and pipe tobacco sharp, as he explained
to me the meaning of heat conduction,
and both our fingers slid across the beads of his rosary, thinking
not at all about the marriage of faith and science, but only of
the ring of spoon bowls rising from dark liquid,
glowing silver tulip petals, their light through the steam a
promise of absolution for the penitent.
Judith Mikesch McKenzie is a teacher, writer, actor and producer living in the Pacific Northwest. She has traveled widely, but is always drawn to the Rocky Mountains as one place that feeds her soul. Writing is her home. She has recently placed/published in two short-story contests, and her poems have been published in Pine Row Press, Halcyone Literary Review, Plainsongs Magazine, Closed Eye Open, Wild Roof Journal, Cathexis Northwest Press, Meat for Tea Valley Review, and several others. She is a wee bit of an Irish curmudgeon, but her friends seem to like that about her.
I sit on the third step up from the basement floor,
feet planted on the first, elbows planted on
my knees, watching as your hand
brushes up and down the raw wood, each
touch of your palm liberating shimmer wet with
the scent of hillsides under pines
sometimes breath simply stops when you settle
a long board down on top of the workbench,
and rest one hand along its length
as if to steady it, to calm the spirits within,
as you reach for your saw, the precise
mark you’ve made appearing
in the light dancing down from the dusty
basement windows, making of the
wood a gleaming body,
resting willing and open beneath your
hand, shaped like clay, polished
like silver, worshiped
like thighs against dark colored sheets
breathing in unison, moving
towards the shape
you both desire.
Learning the Apostle’s Creed
“Metal conducts heat,” Dad would say, as he lined up a pile
of spoons in his coffee cup, placing them in a precise
circle to cool the steaming liquid enough to drink
Around the table, faces gazed down at breakfast plates with
uncertain smiles, unsure whether this was real science,
or something Dad had once been told
The silver bowls of the spoons rested around the rim, all
facing inward, so that they seemed to form the petals of
a silver flower, like a half-opened tulip
He did this every morning through health and illness, in his
mechanic’s jumper on the way to work, or in the striped
pajamas he wore later,
building his silver flower, then dismantling it when a finger,
plunged quick into the cup, spoke of liquid warm but not
biting, each spoon then laid aside to bloom
again in a cloud of steam another day - like the day when, the
silver tulip half-complete, his arm drifts to the table,
a spoon still in his limp hand, and then
stillness.
From the far end of the table, our mother calls his name. And
again,
again,
again - panic rising in her voice
No one can breathe, afraid to look at either of them
It would be weeks later that he actually died, but that morning
around the table, in the air above a half-finished silver
tulip, we felt him go
Later, I leaned against his chest, cheek against the soft flannel,
the scent of medicine and pipe tobacco sharp, as he explained
to me the meaning of heat conduction,
and both our fingers slid across the beads of his rosary, thinking
not at all about the marriage of faith and science, but only of
the ring of spoon bowls rising from dark liquid,
glowing silver tulip petals, their light through the steam a
promise of absolution for the penitent.
Judith Mikesch McKenzie is a teacher, writer, actor and producer living in the Pacific Northwest. She has traveled widely, but is always drawn to the Rocky Mountains as one place that feeds her soul. Writing is her home. She has recently placed/published in two short-story contests, and her poems have been published in Pine Row Press, Halcyone Literary Review, Plainsongs Magazine, Closed Eye Open, Wild Roof Journal, Cathexis Northwest Press, Meat for Tea Valley Review, and several others. She is a wee bit of an Irish curmudgeon, but her friends seem to like that about her.
