He used the axe to chisel off the bark,
then he split the logs for firewood.
The coals were giving off that orange-red glow,
but he wanted yellow flames to pierce the night.
He crouched down, then reached over the edge
of the firepit to place the logs on the coals.
In his mind, he remembered how he burst
in on his wife – and her lover. He wanted to beat
them both, to bruise them, to crash them
into the pain he felt. He resisted the urge
to crumple, to let them see his pain. He drew
himself up and walked out, his heart pierced.
And now, in his loneliness, he watches the light
reflect off the sharp edge of the axe blade.
/ / /
This poem was written in response to Wordle 59 at The Sunday Whirl.