Sometimes There is a Fence

 

Sometimes There is a Fence

I always like her best when I am losing her,
out on the front porch of no certain house
watching the windows stutter images
of home and comfort like we have never seen.
Sometimes there is a fence.
Today there are bushes, flowers,
tracks in the grass as proof:
dogs, children, spirits of the dead
with smooth-bottom shoes, infinite laces.
Smell that, she says. Apple pie.
It is sugar, cinammon, fruit, family
all in one pan. Satisfaction lies in lists
posted on the refrigerator or written on hands.
She is at the top, dancing, her hair
red and gold, thick like warm milk on my fingers.
Trying to find/save/remember her
is all that love can ask of me.
Sometimes there is a fence.
Here on the front porch, the front page,
she smiles as she begins to fall.
Her feet point sharp
and her dress folds around her like a shell
and the crickets are quiet with anticipation
and she can finally be content
because someone will be there to catch her.
Someone always is.