PROMPT: A well-worn scrap of sandpaper. Often I put out a collection of objects for writers to choose from, but this particular object is apt to draw a very different response from each person. It reminded me of my husband, whose shop I confiscated it from, and the many things he's made for me--including dinner!
Writing from Sandpaper
His smell whiffs from
the bracken of grit halted
on this scratched scrap.
It’s the part of him that's
buff and press and snow—
his pattern as it smooths its way
into my tables
my shelves
my chairs.
Into a cabinet of earrings singing secrets.
Into an island where herbs chiffonade
Into an island where herbs chiffonade
in time with the melting sun.
Smooth, so smooth this shaven skin
limber with sweat and callous:
his, mine, this life.
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