Fence

All morning through my window
I watch a man building a fence 
In my neighbor’s yard.

He’s old,
Almost as old as I am, too old 
For this kind of work. It’s spring—

The first blossoms of the apple tree 
Spread their light above him. 
He lifts and drops

The post-hole digger all morning. 
At noon he takes a break.

Sitting on the pile of lumber 
In the back of his truck, he eats
A sandwich. When he’s finished,

He rests for a few minutes,
His face tense with pain or worry,
And then goes back to work
Building a fence between him
And me, comfortable at my computer.

I remember one summer
Building a fence at my family’s farm
In East Texas. Crows

Called to each other
In the tall pines of the sun.

Heat cracked the earth.
Although
I was only sixteen I knew

The work was wearing down my body

Just like the old Mexican men
Working beside me,
Their gnarled hands
And twisted backs.

At the end of summer
Each campesino gave a gentle goodbye
Before returning to Mexico

Barely touching my hand

As if a bird
Brushed my palm with its wing
And flew away

Pittsburgh Quarterly is now accepting submissions for its online poetry feature. PQ Poem is seeking poetry from local, national and international poets that highlight a strong voice and good use of imagery, among other criteria. To have your work featured, send up to three previously unpublished poems in Word or PDF format as well as a brief bio to pittsburghquarterlymag@gmail.com. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but if work is accepted elsewhere, please alert us.