A hawk from a handsaw

The truth is that either one can
cut the flesh and rip in jagged
precision. Each one can depend
on a hand extended: the falconer’s
falling glove, the worker’s callous.
The truth is in the job, not the wound.
For to the manner born, the reach
knows its risk. You can keep
them both in the shed behind the house,
feed one and oil the other.
That which in you that was cut
from flight, that which severed.