A box fan that was as clouded
as a smoker’s lung
didn’t cool down anyone.
It sat in the corner of her
workshop where she carved
things out of wood.
Her knives like a family
tree, most of which forged
from the same chunks
of carbon and iron.
The handles all made
of deer bones she got
from her brother.
He shot them every season
and fed them to the people
he loved most.
A piece of dark lumber
was brought to her.
Rings pulsed out
from its center telling a history
of decades and decades.
She worked all night
under a yellow light,
and shaped the ancient
being into a mask,
that looked like something
from a story.
The Carver
Teleporting Typewriter 