Proving Grounds, The

Bringing in Wood

86 bringing in wood For Christmas when I was five, My mother got us matching chainsaws. Yours was Husquavarna red, full size, Mine a miniature replica, right down To the black lettering along the base, Except mine didn’t spit and roar to bite. I stood straight beside you in late afternoon light, And followed you to the garage where you tucked Me behind you on the Scorpion In blacks and reds like the saws And making a similar whine Like mosquitoes in summer But a million times worse. We’d ride to the woods At the house’s southwest side, Past weeping willows, white birches, To where the tree line changed To oak and pine. I tucked my face Into your snowmobile suit, Held on with thick mittens, A burr at your back. We’d park, walk in, and fell a tree, Or you would, and I’d yell At just the right time to tell you Which way the branches tipped, To left, or right, While you leapt out of harm’s way. Years later you drove me Into the high Sonoran desert Where we felled elders and dropped pines, Loaded enough in your whiteToyota pickup To take me through nights in an old adobe That had no central heat. 87 Two years after that you quit Your university job, signed yourself To the logging company in Butte, Montana At fifty, and the year after that The man helping you didn’t yell Loud enough when the tree Started to tip the wrong way. It crushed your pelvis, broke your knees, Ulcerated your ankle for life And you who ran miles just to soothe All the crows in your head Never skied or ran again, And their voices, like snowmobiles, Took you away from me for good. Friends say I need to call you Sometime before you die. ...