Chainsaw
When it stops I'm grateful,
both for the sudden quiet
and for the girl singing next door
whose voice rends the air
as if the air had begged for it,
but in a languorous way,
not the helpless way
quiet goads a chainsaw.
The girl wields her voice
like the man his chainsaw,
but recklessly, without fear of it
mutilating whatever it bites into.
She flings it into my yard.
It slices me clean through.
Michael Milburn teaches high school English in New Haven, Connecticut. The author of two books of poetry and a collection of essays, Michael's recent writing has appeared in New England Review, Onthebus, The Burnside Review, and Ploughshares.
