No one thinks of me until small trees die.
Or maple saplings bolt, threaten 
alley dumpsters, then here I am.
Rank with basement must. Sawdust 
stuck to my wet mouth.

Now wrap your arms around 
my barrel body,  my gravity. Yeah
I’m a dull slug in a joke 
of a box but hey. I could rip 
calf flesh and have. Shred 
favorite work pants. Not from spite. 
Once I get going I go.

I’m your brother’s, the one 
you can’t talk to except to say 
hey, you got a saw
that could take out something 
thick as my arm?

Neither of us has seen him for a year.
I assume he has other saws.
And his reasons.

Take it slow. Watch the tail.
Know how to set me down,
how not to flinch
when the reciprocating begins in earnest.

Nancy Kangas is a poet, teaching artist, and filmmaker based in Columbus, Ohio. She has poetry in books and journals including MAYDAY Magazine, Forklift, Ohio, and Rattle (Poetry Prize Finalist). Several years ago she co-directed Preschool Poets: An Animated Film Series, which features poems composed by her students, and is now at work on a short documentary film about crying. After writing this poem, she purchased a circular saw, but has yet to use it.