Words from the Woods
for Ayla & Antonius

[“Speak to Me!”
said Michelangelo to David,
flinging his chisel at
what he had created,
at what seemed perfect.]

without face, a voice
black face without features

will speak, will tell of my woes
how I came to be made of wood

alive once, was a tree once
or part of one, limb of one

I’ve neck and head and nothing more
outside of memories, a few thoughts

room of similar figures, all shapes, all sizes
some creatures, some women, some men
some pieces of furniture

like a puppy in a pet shop, selected
taken away, added to a corner
upon a cut nail

corner I share with Amos Ferguson
with a woman from Scotland
high school art teacher
gone back home, left a picture

I wish I were back in the forest
growing green leaves

rain falling on them, on me
fingers, toes of an organist make music

in the forest I was happiest
alive, I was happiest

dead though not buried
wood in a museum, resembling a man

with black face, without features

poet, this poem permit me voice,
words, as they were in the beginning


© Obediah Michael Smith, 2009
1:54 p.m. 17.08.09