Thought About A Fence

Thought about a fence:
had the ground surveyed,

facing me with four posts,
each corner hailing

a pink flag of skin
for fragile—and now

I wonder if I am fencing in
inclusion or holding back

far away a torrent of love,
held sway from the neuro-

centrum, my own sinew
as central to me

when I should be other-
focused. Dense clouds

tether the sun from harming
the vertebra of feeling, tying

my hands but dissecting,
removing folds, sucking away

moisture, the flaps, tucking
the skin, searching for that

which has been memorized
to stupidity—language

without phonemes
that split and rail,

recitative bird calls—
hole and pole,

nose and eyes, and why
they stream picket and spaced

thru the openings
of our lattice lives.

Imperfection

Magnolia blossom witnesses to truth
that I cannot and sees thru
its color, the new way to surrender self

to the blossoms
of the house I am visiting here
and will be visited again
thru the words:

to witness what it means to see
thru the spots
where I falter—

at the yellow house of my husband
where I march at gunpoint
to the basement of singed rust
wearing my joints in concrete

as my fingers spell out
cries and cackles
against blooming,

but visiting here and will be
again thru the words
where I falter.

Power Washing

Back and forthing, erasing every smell
of identity. Cleansing
in a slouch, how green fades—the way you thought
patina was antique. Up
your chemical bath this side of verdure,
drubbed and lathered by the man.
Wipe you clean up and underneath. Howl from
the stain of mold and abyss,
which is every porch when spring says it’s time.
Use your hands and put knuckles
into this backyard mother against the
road of wash, buckling cotton
finger-sore in the gambit. Except you
stepstool and brush against brush,
your horizontal pains tower above
the armpits, spraying higher
than a cloud along the house where you live
until the sunshine steals your pants
and shirt, and all the hoses shout and curl
around you to reasonably
investigate this living and dying,
choosing from which crevice to which
under this green shroud.

As a poet and retiree, I contemplate in my peace garden of perennials, where I desire to practice a kind of kenosis—emptying self so that I may be filled with divine possibilities. George Eliot wrote that flowers see and listen to us, and it is among them that I place myself. Here, I am open to the silence and communication of nature, to be receptive to a Creator, and to believe. In my daily walks I also embrace the luxury of trees and water before me, which suits my purpose as a personal cathedral of gratitude, renewal, and surprise.

Jan Wiezorek writes from Barron Lake in Michigan. He has taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago, and his poetry has appeared or is forthcoming at The London Magazine, Yes Poetry, L’Ephemere Review, Words Dance, Adelaide Literary Magazine, and Leaping Clear. Jan is author of Awesome Art Projects That Spark Super Writing (Scholastic, 2011). He also writes about unsung heroes for The Paper in Buchanan, Michigan, and did so formerly as a freelancer for the Chicago Tribune. Jan holds a master's degree in English Composition/Writing from Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago.

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