Charles Haddox

POETRY

The Carpenter

He knew all kinds of wood:
the olive branches pruners leave,
ribboned like fine serpentine,
costly rods of incense trees
for shaping canes and spoons.
He chiseled heavy trusses
of sturdy, dark acacia,
knotted, narrow cypress trunks,
and pine, as plain as bread.
He knew the tools and workshop skills:
knife and hammer, plane and wedge,
almond oil with somber myrrh;
endless hours sawing oak,
exhausting work, but sure;
rubbing the red cedar chest
until it gleamed like gold.

On workdays in the summer’s heat,
rough hands shaped the doors and posts,
young hands, full of strength and skill,
proficient in the trade.

He, the well-trained carpenter,
designed a precious universe:
crimson fruits and honeycombs,
mating rites of birds,
distant, cloudy mountain peaks,
landforms slowly drawn from seas;
stones and clay and mason sand,
hands and tools and wood.

Passerby

All the people outside the Stop-n-Go
are looking for something:
a dog, a meal, a blanket,
a “buenos días,”
filled with thirst because life has left them
nothing but the street.
Cars pass by as fleeting dreams,
shoppers carry snacks and beer,
an old man wearing a camo jacket
stands in the middle of a busy street,
until, like a storm,
he glides away
(usually with an officer’s escort).

But because God’s love surrounds like a field
that may be touched and everywhere touches,
and remains like a dove through persistent laughing,
yelling, singing, crying, pleading,

I leave in peace,
and with prayers and handclasps
from a skater who reminds me
of David the shepherd.

Charles Haddox lives in El Paso, Texas, on the U.S.-Mexico border, and has family roots in both countries. His poetry has appeared in a number of journals including San Pedro River Review, Commonweal, and Vita Poetica. charleshaddox.wordpress.com

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