Lining up the wood on the block
he’s a decent size, matured, a pale shade.
The axe swings her high arc, wedges silver
into the centre. He rocks open, his ant-black
heart dribbles pincers onto her feet, shock
shakes them off. Later in the fuel stove
his wine sap heats and hisses his defeat.
First published in Voiceworks, no. 83, Summer 2010-2011.