Chainsaw
Helping my father and uncles when I was ten,
felled a tree, on break then ready to go again.
I walked around the corner of the truck
as someone pulled the cord and I got stuck.
Now that chainsaw’s engine didn’t start,
but it didn’t have to, to rip my skin apart.
Right through my jeans, but not too deep,
saw my flesh before it began to seep.
Dyed my t-shirt like a canvas with the body’s ink,
those cells made a mosaic from red to pink.
To my surprise, I was left with no pain,
but anesthetic’s steel lacked the mercy of the bar chain.
Skilled hands drove a cutting needle’s threads
through clotting cascades and capillary beds.
On my right thigh, a scar’s pledge,
for every kind of limb, Stihl has the edge.
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Contest: Any Rhyme Form – An Early Childhood Memory
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Written: 04.20.18
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