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{the builder's silence} trey moody The builder doesn’t show his hands, hidden under the table. Reaching a drink he reveals one: bones and veins and skin wrinkle like maps, but she has no questions. The wood he cuts crackles in the fireplace, its sparks colors that shape the shifting curls of the number eight. She feels half her face warm and imagines it bright. But day can’t be done until fingers are spongy and dogs inhabit front lawns. On the flat wood, water pools in circles traced from hot metal and breaths. The builder rolls his sleeves and ponders his dog’s existence aloud. Still houses are being built and stand heavy like oaks. But the builder never tells how hard he works. He chops wood, never noticing his hands, and the trees grow silent like rust. |
