Pulling Peter Back Since you died I've tried to pull you back through the dove-tailed joints in the white pine toolbox you made for me, hoping to squeeze you through the cracks. And when I cut a board I measure twice, pulling the rule out to a birdsmouth mark. I expect to see you standing there to double-check. I can wrench the rusty nails from a plank of spruce, hear them squeak in the claws of my hammer, but you won't come loose. You never suffered chaos gladly, and stacked the two-by-twelves in perfect level piles. But I'm stubborn too. I yank at the plumb bob, hoping to feel you at the other end, my rule poised to measure the length of your fall. I tug at the chalk-line, snap the blue string across the roof to mark the shingles' path. If only you'd appear from that familiar dust. I look for your face in the grain of the butternut burls you sawed neatly into cutting boards, in the ice that clicks in a glass of bourbon. I can't stop pulling the blade on the knife I gave you for your birthday -- till I look down and see the red on my palm. And I let go. from Boston Review   home · resume · recent publications · schedule · technical writing · course offerings list of clients · connecting chord · programs ·  poetry pages · bardic performances · contact Christine Hemp P.O. Box 674 Port Townsend, WA 98368 tel: 360-385-9005