She Wants A Picket Fence
Wilmot’s spent the day like a baker,
fitting handmade picket-molds over
slim cedar planks. Tracing lines,
jig-sawing her want into pieces chasing
that American dream. White won’t do.
There’ll be no paint, only water-seal
and sweat to cover her picket fence.
The last plank in place, three nail heads
file his front teeth, the fourth shimmies
between his splinter-filled left thumb
and pointer-finger. Those last four
like all the roses he’s pruned and
come away looking like he’s lost
a fight. Wilmot hammers— The fence, fingers
fit together. Him, a sow’s low moan
when the last piglet’s stillborn.