There’s no point to owning a fence. My bitch chews under it, manic for a possum. There’s no point to the cross beams reinforcing the fence, my bitch parkours to the top, to get at a deer, her mud tracks spattered up the planks of wood. There’s no point to a leash, either, when another dog passes. My bitch bites the neck of the strap and wrestles me. Sure, she lies in the sun, a quiet bitch next to my beach chair, or gnaws (but gentle) on my fingers. She must dream of the jump that crests the fence, or the tug that makes me drop the lead. And maybe we both imagine that— her stretching in a dead run across the neighborhood, terrifying and glorious. Why the fence? Why the fence?
Louise Robertson serves as the marketing director for Writers' Block Poetry Night in Columbus, OH. She counts among her many publications, awards, and honors a jar of homemade pickles she received for running a workshop as well as a 2018 Pushcart nomination (Open: A Journal of Arts and Letters) and a 2018 Best of the Net nomination (Flypaper).
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