for a client
Just off Critz Lane the posts have been in the ground
for months now, maybe twenty of them,
evenly spaced, tops level,
awaiting the horizontal planks that will
make them a fence.
Rebecca insists that her heart is open
to love, but I see the posts
jammed into her soil, historical
markers without words, high reaching tombs
without names or dates, wooden
spikes driven into her own heart
but still that is not the death of her.
Hers will be one of suffocation when
love again approaches her property,
as she will rush to her posts and
nail into place the horizontal slats
that will fortress her heart and
fence in its breath.
--rLp--
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