Poems by Anastasia Dotzauer

On the Other Side

by Anastasia Dotzauer

From Canary Summer 2019

Anastasia lives at the base of the Wasatch Range in the Mill Creek River watershed. She is surrounded by cottonwood, aspen, and boxelder trees that are filled to the brim with robins and woodpeckers.

Last year, my father knitted a wire
fence around our house and three others—
a rust-brick block trussed by steel.

Its gunmetal gray fades to dappled
lilac as the sky shifts from shadow to sun.
At night, it clicks and creaks as

if answering his evening prayers.
But no fence—gray, white, or dun will
steady my father’s blind-eyed fears.

He thinks a thin braid of metal and
posts thick as a man’s wrist can seal
the leak—keep wild hands and

bluegrass from creeping in. But
there’s a secret space for leaves to settle,
for weeds to peak. Bushes slide

through the cracks, twist in shapes
he thinks natural, tendril gently over the
lipped fence end. But the way green

slips through seams is anything but
natural. Whatever he’s caged in is
a human thing. Whatever unnerves

him is the earth—a slow-growing
clover lifting from under our feet, forever
slicking our soles as we walk through

the wire gate opening toward home.