chainsaw carving

give me the history knife
alive with the scent of pine 
& bruises. i take a chunk of my liver
to all the artists that i know
hoping one will have a chainsaw 
lying around. hoping one
is a man with a pile of teeth beneath
his bed. the question of 
"who has shaped you?"
is both abundant & terrifying.
i think of becoming a closet
of sock puppets. here are all
the animals i have eaten 
in a jury to decide what kind of creature
is going to be carved out of my wood. 
they chant "ant hill" & i decide
a colony could suite me. it sounds
like a relief to be so many pieces
to blame. a buck stands on the ceiling.
a brother in the garbage disposal.
i have jars full of noises i no longer
allow to escape my throat. 
bird call. yell. scream. cough.
once i screamed & my dad became
a chainsaw. i saw him spin.
who has shaped you? who has
carved you with an audience?
who has said, "i'm so sorry"
as if the machine were not in his hand?
i want to tell you something different though.
once i was dead & so were all
the magnolia trees. then, there was
a mourning dove. he held a pairing knife.
cut my eyelids off & said,
"look at all the pink." i did.
i stared into the pink & the pink
stared back. i said, "i am not sorry."
the bird said, "i do not want you to be."