The Unnecessary Line

The Unnecessary Line

The fence was already there

before we named it division.

Wood sunk into soil,

wire pulled tight between breathing fields.

On one side: corn bending in wind.

On the other: nothing but distance

learning how to call itself sky.

I watched my neighbor hammer

each post deeper than conversation.

He did not look up.

I did not wave.

Somewhere a dog barked

at a boundary it did not understand.

Somewhere a child asked

why the horizon needed stitching.

We grow accustomed to edges.

We inherit them like heirlooms—

this is yours,

this is mine,

this is where the trouble begins.

I once swallowed a marble when I was six.

The ambulance came with soft red lights,

as if even emergency knew

not to startle the dark.

By morning the fence was finished.

By morning the corn had chosen a direction

and the sky kept pretending

it had never been cut in two.

No one removed the wire.

No one removed the question.