the desk (a freeform poem)
i own a desk, made by my great-grandfather
a few years ago it nearly got thrown out. it is hard to find space for old things, in our new houses and new lives
i chose to save it.
it's not a very good desk for me. it is not a desk i would design
but it is the desk my great-grandfather designed.
i wonder what he would think of what i have done to it?
when it came to me, it was still more-or-less pristine. a few dents, some wear,
now there is
scraps of poetry in sharpie, badly devised,
the spot where i spilled nail polish, and smudged it into the shape of a star,
scrapes, mug stains, idle scribbles, knife marks,
and the little square where i burned away the varnish with a lighter, just to see how it would smell.
the marks of a life my great-grandfather probably could never imagine
but i wonder about him.
i run my hands across the edges and lines of this desk
i see the whorls where the wood was imperfectly sanded down,
pencil lines and measurements on the underside,
the spot where a nail split the timber a little too far,
smears of glue and polish inside the drawers.
i can picture him constructing it
i inherited some of his craft
i know a mortise and tenon joint,
i understand how cleverly he measured the edges
so it would sit perfectly flush against a wall,
and i wonder at the incredibly wonky drawers
so precise and also so inconsistent
in a single work of art.
i wonder what he would think of everything i've done with it?
i have worked at this desk,
cried over it,
slept on it, under it,
fallen in and out of love beside it,
i have bled over this desk,
touched myself at it,
spent long nights, and early mornings,
talking with friends and lovers,
some still here and some long gone,
i have played, i have eaten, i have gotten drunk and let myself starve,
all with the company of this desk
i wonder if he knows?
this desk has been many things to me
a place to make memories, a pain in the ass,
a place to laugh,
and something worth saving.
i wonder what it was to him?
an early craft, an early pride?
the rough draft, or the final result?
a cobbled-together masterpiece,
or a leftover waste of time?
i will never know
there is nobody who knew him around for me to ask.
i own a desk,
that my great-grandfather and i made
a hundred years apart
this wonky and imperfect thing,
we both thought was good enough to save.
xx