Hell’s Half Acre
The day we drove across Wyoming, I pinned
my fears on home; your children’s resentments
followed me west, shadowing me like bad weather.
The geology itself was an aftermath,
wind-scarred and cragged like an enduring face —
that kind of beautiful. From Riverton
to Hell’s Half Acre, I brooded; your confusion
blurred the periphery. I wish I could
explain my anger, the menace of my dread.
I almost missed the sign which, along with chain
link fencing, was all that set the place apart from the miles
we’d already driven. So much spectacular
sameness begins to numb a person. The brittle
plains were savaged by chasms, cratered like
movie-set moons. I have been a stranger
in every house I’ve entered. Time reveals
itself in lines: stripes on a cliff face, rings
in a tree trunk, wrinkles across my brow,
cracks in our house’s foundation. We walked
the fence in opposite directions. You took
a phone call from your daughter, so I kept
my distance jealously. The visit lasted
no more than ten minutes. The only photograph
I took is a closeup of the fence, the badlands
beyond a smudge. Back in the car I wanted
to say something redeeming, but you touched
my arm so gently, I was mute. I’m sorry.
I see only edge and threat surrounding me —
a flawed perspective — in truth the rocks
are soft enough to crumble in my hands.