what wood becomes

what wood becomes
by diy danna
the last time we talked
i told you i loved you and burnt
a stack of virginia woolfe books
in a trash barrel outside my log cabin
to please the fascist lesbian librarian
who wanted to make out with me
under the portrait of dewey
my senior year in high school.
while tied to a tree in the big thicket
i wondered if you ever thought of me
and why you never kissed me,
when I asked for the last time,
after i ran a marathon to get to you
and lost one of my shoes
in a manhole where the madhatter
and i drank tea laced with your apathy.
you’ve made your choice
and there’s nothing i can do
but kiss him slowly, surely
and cut out little pieces of fabric
on the living room couch
and fabricate a lie about
your unrequited true love
for a married woman named hope.
these swatches in her chest
are a defecated pile up,
choking me to wake up
from my sickened slumber
and stop sleepwalking
through the hours and find the strength
to tell you that i’m in love
with a lumberjack.
you chopped me down
and i sprouted extra limbs
to reach for the sun
and kiss forbidden fruit
that drops from the top
and falls into my mouth
with the sweetest taste
of tears and texas oranges.
if patience is a virtue
then i’m a wooden whore
robbed of any rhyme and sure
that she wants you.
without reason and the chest dowry
i waited at the station,
when you said you would come –
“Soon, my sweet.”
but soon passed and i beg for the axe
to chip away all my useless bark
and strip away my naked fears
to reveal the fine piece of
whittling wood to shape
not as you like, but as i wish –
not an idol of your worship,
but a useful thing.