7
Joint
by Philip Miller
Dad was chopping wood.
Placing cords on a block
and striking them through.
was up a tree, all glad, and yelled.
His hit fell wrong
and his shoulder became two.
A wince and a hanging arm.
Over the fields, the crows called.
Autumn dying in the cold.
Come down, son, and hold the axe,
he said. I held the heavy shaft.
And he forced his joint back.