My mother always looked
For dinner tickets
In the breast pocket
Of my grey school shirt.

Dried mud
Falls from my workboots.
Zigzag sculptures
Leave a trail as I head
For the woods.

She found a folded drawing
Of a naked woman.
My father asked me about it.

Chainsaw makes easy work
Of young birch blocking my path.

For days I denied all knowledge
Of the shocking work of art.

Resting on a fallen log,
I wipe the sweat from my brow.

Admitting I had made the drawing,
I wept.

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