The Carver

I once held a name in my mouth,

a syllable forming like water over stone,

but before it could be spoken,

it fractured—splintering into silence,

dust in an open hand,

shape unfinished, stone unformed.

What am I, if not the pause before the strike?

The moment when change hovers,

between intent and impact,

between what is and what could be.

I stand poised,

Unsure where the first strike lands.

Untouched its weight confines,

caught between presence and possibility.

I move, but where is forward

when the marble lays bare?

To hesitate is to vanish,

to linger is to be swallowed whole.

I see myself in another’s gaze—

not as I am, but as I am shaped,

shackled to a self I did not sculpt,

a prisoner of perception.

And yet, I am free.

A gift of terror and beauty.

Wings unfurled,

yet hands falter.

Knowing that once I cut, it can not be renounced.

But to leave the stone untouched

is to disappear.

To stand unshaped.

I carve, though the blade wavers.

I carve, though the marble resists.

I carve, though doubt persists.

Each strike, a fracture of ambiguity,

each cut, a letter of a name,

a name long buried.

And in carving,

I become.