Altering Each Other

She remembers when she was young,

she liked to touch his beard,

her fingers whispering across his face,

his stubble bumpy, uneven,

rough, like sandpaper, they told her,

but she didn't understand,

she never brushed her fingers over sandpaper,

hadn't felt its grit.

When she was less young,

she liked to watch him work,

his dirty hands gliding the whirring saw through the furry boards,

two small pieces instead of one long,

She inhaled, rich, warm, sweet, sawdust,

rough-sawn cedar, he told her.

The rough wood, abrasive sandpaper,

buzzing sander vibrates,

whining as it skips across the surface,

wood still wood, but different,

smooth, fingers glide without splinters,

the sandpaper's roughness is spent,

using itself up doing what it's supposed to do,

limited, disposable, essential only for a short time,

sandpaper, discarded, reminds her,

when her little fingers danced on his face.

Her hands, now weathered, miss it,

fingers on hairy skin, or wood,

yearning for that sensation.