Before I mark the stairs,
I select strong wood.

I reject pulpy grained boards
And those with too many knots.

I look for varied grains
That reinforce each other.

(I don’t think the porch caved in.)
Next I divide the total height

(I think he fell all the way from the top.)
Into the smallest allowable step.

(He was still a toddler.)
I cut the stairs, then nail them together.

Every blow of every nail
Tries to bury the way I asked him,

“Did your kid ever die?”
The words escaped me like a belch.

I wished I could have turned into
A yellow pine plank then,

Rather than the granite stone
That made him admit,

“Yes, after about two days.”
I wished I hadn’t eaten supper.