Mendin Fences
I mend fence for a living,
but I ain’t fixed the one that matters.
The wire stretches out like a scar across this land,
and most days, my hands don’t feel like mine anymore...
callused, cracked,
barbed wire bit deep across the knuckles,
rosebush caught me reachin
where I shouldn’t’ve.
Still...
none of it hurts like the hollowness in my chest
where my little girl used to rest.
She’s seven months now.
Last I saw her,
she was a whisper wrapped in a blanket,
breathin against my ribs
like she already knew my heart was hers.
Now I ride fence lines hopin
the wind might carry me a thread of her laughter,
some proof she still smiles like me.
Her mama don’t talk much anymore.
The silence between us
is wider than this pasture.
I try not to hate her for it...
I reckon she’s guardin
the only soft thing she’s got left.
Still…
I’d give every busted knuckle,
every rough mile,
just to feel those tiny fingers
wrap around my thumb again.
You don’t know what soft is
til you’ve held your own blood
in your arms.
I thought I was tough.
I thought I’d felt pain.
But it ain’t a broke rib
or a rank bronc
that humbles a man...
it’s the sound of a baby
you can’t sing back to sleep.
I don’t sleep much these days.
Not cause of work.
I just keep hearin her in my dreams,
and I wake up reachin
for someone who ain’t there.
But I keep mendin.
Every busted post,
every saggin line...
some part of me hopes
that if I fix enough,
maybe God will hand me back
what I lost.
Or maybe she’ll grow up
and find her way through all this wire,
back to these hands...
rough as they are,
but still reachin,
still rememberin
what love feels like
pressed soft against your chest,
breathin steady...
like hope.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
