He cut trees down in his mind
Working when he wasn't working
Dovetail chisels careening down
Highways of cherry and side streets of birch
I could see sawhorses in his eyes rocking madly like
Crazed wooden clockworks,
Wood Chips flying everywhere,
Collecting in small mountains in his peripherals.

I hated it.
The way the each lobe of his brain
Was now a delicately carved
And well-oiled work of wood.
In bed each night I tensed
As he tossed and turned,
Finally getting up to sand off the corner of a desk
Or hack off our daughter’s arm
And sand it away to a soft lump,
Leaving the severed appendage
On the shelf like a trophy

I married an artist, but then he was a painter
And I loved how he smelt of acrylic
And how his brushes moved endlessly
Despite the piles of works no one wanted to buy.

Now I was living in the mad palace of an architect
And a sculptor, his works growing in size
Consuming his live,
And mine,
Which I never signed up for.
Canvasses were one thing but
Enormous trunks of hundred-year-old maples
Were another contract entirely,
Marriage vows I didn't agree to
Registrations left unsigned.

And now I too toss in the night, making my decision
Hesitating like he must have with his axe raised
Above the arm of the sculpture of our daughter
But he followed through which I admired
So though still I loved him in a way still I rose in the night and drove
Hundreds of miles, the highway dark and gleaming
Like the stretches of mahogany inside of him I knew were endless.
In the morning I called him but he didn't pick up
Must’ve been working
As always carving,
Carving.