He pulls at the end of every two lines,

heavy as a stone fence
that she finds in the forest
when she isn’t looking. She has been driving
in rain come from the southwest,

a late fall rain, the kind that turns hot to cold
and finally brings the leaves on down
to where they wait on the forest floor. The stone fence
from eighty years before was built from stone

so close and common to the surface
the county was named for it. Stacked tight
and neat to the approximate height
of a man’s waist, the stone fence

is strung through what is forest now,
seeming to have no place to go. A father
works to lift a heavy load: from the ocean
to go, to the ocean to leave, a stone fence’s

worth and more, measured by tons. The stone fence
is right in its line, like him once in his mind
in the morning by the fire, with a woman
by his side, a fire at its heart a jaybird,

a blue flame over the stone fence,
which she has suddenly found,
her hands in the fire. Pull from the stone
an ocean, and she will drive them, old

enough to be a parent herself now. She is pulled
deep in the forest as a stone fence
built when she wasn’t looking
by a man with flames thick in his mind,

a father who lifted the volume of a stone fence
and more in winter when rattlesnakes
were slower. She watched him from the cab of the truck
where he thought she’d be safer.

Pull, up from the ground where the stones
rise in winter. Pull, up into a sudden form.

Volume  11.2 - December 2018

ANGIE MACRI, AUTHOR OF UNDERWATER PANTHER AND FEAR NOTHING OF THE FUTURE OR THE PAST, HAS RECENT WORK IN DIAGRAM, THE JOURNAL, AND THE SOUTHERN REVIEW. AN ARKANSAS ARTS COUNCIL FELLOW, SHE LIVES IN HOT SPRINGS, AND YOU CAN FIND HER ONLINE AT ANGIEMACRI.WORDPRESS.COM. THIS POEM HOLDS ECHOES OF THE SONG “RAGGY LEVY.”