MY FATHER'S VISE

In my young years
It towered above me
Sacred - like an altar
Never far from view

He would stand
Before it
His work firmly clamped as
His hands carefully chose
Each tap
His mallet made against the chisel

Slowly revealing with every shave
Another layer
Another level
Closer to his creation

In his voice
In his hands
Echoed his reverence for this
Aromatic wood

He would share the perfume
Of the lignum vitae,
“wood of life”
With a pleasure I indulge today
When I rub a piece
To release the comforting smell

Through the years
Each of his children
Grew taller than the vise
Occasionally a form would emerge
Never - according to him - quite finished

Before I was born
He apprenticed with
Isamu Noguchi
There are few pieces
To show his talent

I received from the art collector
The mobile
On a base of lignum vitae
After my father died

He had traded it
For a Model A for my mother
Though she never learned to drive

My Aunt Simonne
Gave me a reclining bull
She retrieved from his trash can

Fighting demons with his work
My father took an ax
To every piece in his studio

Only recently I learned
He worked on Noguchi’s bas relief
At Rockefeller Center
I photographed my grandson
Posed in front of piece
The camera with the film
Was lost