Many Houses Were Gone
In that high and windy place, something I had never thought
much of presented itself—a tangle of concertina wire
the men used for their herds. Beneath my feet it rose
weakly, as if the rust and fur that clung to its teeth
had won, dulled it harmless with decades of light
touch. In that moment, I wished it a metaphor
for your father—frontier worn irrelevant to a point
of longing for a phone call or the mercy of—
For him to know what I have since
you told me about the time he dropped you off
in a roadside coffee shop—blaming work, he left you
to roll straw sleeves into little wet pebbles.
When nearly a year ago, between the foam of your words,
I knew some small thing was etched into me—saw him
emerge less through the sentences than the pauses, breath
you reserve for messages left on his phone. To be perfectly
clear, harm was never my intention. Perhaps that is what
he and I share. Perhaps that is the window glazed
I have had such trouble reading. In that flat
and open space, blood’s slow arrival
was a reminder I could not escape myself, the wire
nothing more than a scrap of fence, yet still I find
myself wondering if those few houses ever held men
different from those I have known. If their work asked
less of their families, if they never asked for forgiveness
the way I have never asked mountains to kneel before me.
Nicholas Fuenzalida is originally from Colorado but now lives in New York. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Indianola Review, Bodega, Cleaver Magazine, Rust+Moth, and elsewhere. You can find him on Twitter at @fountainexit.