Current Issue: Reconciliation
2010-2011
The Wall
Sean Hill
I stood in front of the wall
to anywhere and knew
the preposition was right
—the wall as way. It was
gray and not like that barn
in Georgia or that bar
in Minnesota and not
like those clouds over
South Dakota that time
we drove through all
that prairie-forever.
Drab, it could have
contained anything or
blocked everything or
created all spaces or
held a door to anywhere
or kept me this side
of anyplace.
I posed in front of the wall
and thought of it as a way.
My position was wrong: Look
here, away, soften your eyes,
loosen your mouth, relax
your hands, look there,
now at me.
Not adorned with a painting,
and not part of a cave or
condo, it didn't come with
a firing squad or faithful
wailers or Mongol hordes or
different politics embracing
either side of it or a noisy
freeway and places to reside
just over there with old trees
and small lawns where those
who can’t quite afford quiet
have to live.
This wall was just there—
a blank page with me
standing behind it.