Fence
for Margie
She built that fence
in the snow. All
we saw of her
was her red anorak
and the upward
flash of her tool, a
hammer. Later,
after her husband died
and we tried to visit
she wouldn’t come
to the door. Now all
that’s left is that fence,
weathered, sturdy,
still barring us,
though she has moved
away. She took her
dog with her but she
left the dish behind.
Now, it sits there like
a bright blue plug. We
think if we remove it
the whole yard may
swirl inward, down Hell’s
drain, taking house and
tree and logpile, leaving
one reassuring fence, inviolate.



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