From the Fishouse

“Might it be that this piece of wood has learned to weep
and cry like a child?”
—C. Collodi, The Adventures of Pinocchio

As he angled the screw into the joint
he hesitated to fasten its knee

more real than his own stiffened by winters,

nights of hearth & plates of black bread
that taught gratitude for the small

callous on his forefinger cushioning a day’s work.

The puppet in his lap flailed its stringless arms
as if they were given

without fire in mind & the limitless distance

between it & it; yet he
listened not to the reedy voice I want I want,

but to the wind thrumming against the shutters,
hollow knock of wood against wood,

a pulse that kept measure with his,

which bored the puppet, so that it leapt & spun away
laughing on its spindle legs

that loosened then splintered, & dragged behind
as it crawled toward him

weeping for repair.