Laura McCullough: Reclaimed Wood

I confess now I have begun to henna
        my red hair gone dull
in parts and penny bright in others.
        And I always tried to subdue
its wildness. But when the hull of our
        marriage busted rock

and began to leak, we both thought
        it was a good idea to renovate
the kitchen, together, by ourselves.
        We closed up the hall
to the back rooms to create more
        privacy and took down a load-

bearing wall in hoped of opening
        the “flow.” My husband looked
like Christ hauling the salvaged
        timbers from a warehouse deep
in the Piney woods one by one
        up the front stoop, laying

them in our suburban living room,
        posing as a Brooklyn loft.
We framed the new wide space:
        one as header, two as column braces,
then sat on the floor cross-legged
        looking at our work in progress,

the way the wood had aged,
        the colors and striations, notches
and hammered pegs. We felt our
        fifties ranch had a new story now,
something with weight, and we
        held hands a little while before

getting up, heading to the shower,
        falling back into our routine.