Poem: "Whittle Down" Sawyer, [Lost]
Title: Whittle Down
Character/s: Sawyer, Sayid
Rating: Er... PG?
A/N: For Our Queen
halfdutch, who requested Grooming Rituals [among other things]. I hope this passes muster. All Hail the Queen!
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Whittle Down
He’s taken up whittling
something to do aside from reading,
something to keep his hands busy.
Sawyer might be in Patience’s employ,
but his fingers have always required distraction.
Glare silver
knife in sunlight,
he savors the contrast
between bamboo and steel.
Sawyer is mesmerized
by the stainless blade-
a weapon that holds
no memory on its killing edge.
It dulls and wants sharpening,
like every well-used tool
but rust will not bloom
or scent this surface.
Bamboo accepts
the mark and deepening bite;
it would grow strong
and upright if abandoned,
a pale scar, monument for brief collisions
worn on green curves.
Sawyer picks and fells,
Quick blows of a borrowed axe-
A swift refusal of scarring.
Sweaty armful
Of hollow clatter
Dropped beneath a tarp.
It’s instinct to hide his resources.
An armory of nail clippers
in an Italian leather bag.
Once a shaving kit,
now another shadowy talisman,
shoved under the bed
cushions.
Sawyer carves narrow
slivers of green, tapering,
shaving away the unnecessary.
A pile of feathery discards,
verdant curls growing at his feet.
Tinder to be,
dumped unnoticed
into the nearest ring of stones and ash.
It took time to figure out
the best shape- width and length
of taper eluded, until he tore off the bandage.
With that blindfold’s removal, knowledge bled free.
Dawn wakes him and beckons;
still half in dreams, Sawyer shears
his carving free, drops the knife
point first into the sand and
settles back, running bamboo
under his fingernails.
Sawyer’s gaze never wavers.
A figure at the tree line
freezes and watches Sawyer’s hands.
Sawyer does not look down.
This is ritual and remembrance, enacted for one man.
Sayid never disappoints.
Sawyer hates
having dirt under his nails,
grit lodged close
a sandy crescent of irritation.
But he can only clean his nails now,
still groggy and intently watched.
At any other time
His hands shake
Too much.
All day, a splinter rests
in Sawyer’s shirt pocket.
The wood presses and shifts close,
rustling its companion, a creased envelope.
Each night he drops bamboo
into the fire, another carving consigned
to flame. Each morning more splits wait to be released.