Carpenter/Poet at the Gate for Michael Macklin, Poetry Editor

by Gerard Grealish

I imagine you inviting strangers
into the fold, finding in the cut
of their words a grain that draws you
in, knots burned
from branches born of the mother trunk.

Beyond saw, axe, and chisel,
hammer and nail, I imagine you
discovering the wood; beyond the pen,
you find the wounds, open,

and dress them,
not with paint but the transparent
stain of yourself.
In the scars will be
the words.