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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.

Her
Posted 04/08/13
"She Wants A Picket Fence" first appeared in Whiskey Island
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