The Patina of my Desk

by Theodore McDowell

My antique half-moon desk supports the existential weight
of Camus’ The Myth of Sisyphus. Mahogany carved
by razor blades to immortalize love, spill the blood
of suicide and poetry, measure a line of dust.

The patina confronts me with memories,
the rings of late-night coffee cups
as I burn my soul at both ends,
the stains of overturned whiskey bottles
and flasks filled with 100 proof delusions.

I have pounded the wood with fists after the accident,
trying to bludgeon an image from my mind
or pummel nouns and vowels into a name.

I have clasped my hands together on the rough surface
in prayer, nerve endings alive with the tactile gift
of a wooden cross, the singular spark of rebirth.

Facing a bay window, the view assures me
I have arrived home after desert wanderings.
I glory in magnolias, redbud trees
and a small creek winding
peacefully through the backyard
in silent meditation.

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#25
January
2022

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