Harvesting Timber
You are quite stubborn, my friend
Sturdy, resolute, silent.
No matter how hard I swing my ax
I am unable to break you.
I turn you side to side
Looking for that place
A single opening, a discreet flaw
In which to fit my split wedge.
When I think I’ve found it
I look you in the eye
For a moment, we stare at each other
Measuring each other’s strength.
I ready myself
Sledgehammer high off my shoulder
Yet you lie calm, haughty, motionless
Mocking me into inevitable failure.
And so it is
My determined friend.
You remain in one piece
Whole as the earth intended.
The Arriving Swell
She arrives
From deep in the Aleutian Arc
In a well-timed unison
The strict formation
Of an army in the dark November Pacific.
Moon rises
And with it
Monstrous walls of water
Explode on the tormented reef
Bellowing in natural duty.
Underneath she is caught
Holding her breath
Amongst the battle of kelp and
A family of otters who
Watch the bulging eyes
Of this strange creature
Wondering
Why she is down here
Away from her own.
The Letter
The letter arrives
sunburned and stained
with chickpeas and oil.
Late fingerprints caught
a topographic map of the Khyber Pass
now frozen in the first Sierra frost.
She tucks the letter
underneath her worn scarf
against the oils of her own skin
letting the ridge lines,
the contours of his thumb,
once again, run along her neck.
~ Liz Tucker is a writer of fiction and poetry living in Truckee. Her work can be found in Transfer Magazine, Red River Review, the Aroostook Review, Women on Writing Spring 2011 Flash Fiction Contest, and soon in ‘Tahoe Blues,’ an anthology published by Bona Fide Books. When she isn’t writing, Liz can usually be found anywhere outside spending time with her husband and two children or hacking away at the cello. Info: liztucker.wordpress.com
