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Image via Clem Onojeghuo on Unsplash

the workshop bears the unmistakable scent of sawdust, one my father still carries home in his flannelette shirts. it migrates between us, invisible wings sparkling where the sun has tripped through Perspex skylights. buzzing saws mimic an angry hive. machined timber is smooth, the burrs stack themselves in mutated reds and browns. they lurk like sullen teenagers with hair in their eyes and plans in their pockets. later my father will soothe them into feature-pieces or small coasters, treat them for heat and our obsession with coffee. they will grow flat and still, have no more frowns

not even a shadow on him
 my sweat
 follows the grain