Living Wall
by Bill King
Out the seeds’ first leaves—twin hearts
that point in opposite directions—tri-fingered
vines climb slash pole and mason string
to make a living wall: a summer screen
between my neighbor and me, filtering
laughter and deepening silence, except when
the robin sings. He’ll sit above the property
line reminding us how to breathe. To this
great height the beans aspire. Yard longs, this year.
Skinny and sweet, with dark green and glossy leaves.
By late July, we’ll no longer wave. We’ll angle
our heads like cats in the wild to find a line of sight.
They look ready to me, I’ll say, when at last we meet.
Take what you need. I’ve more than I can eat.
Bill King (he/him) is a Pushcart Prize nominee who has published in many journals and anthologies, including 100 Word Story, The Southern Poetry Anthology, Still: The Journal, Kestrel, and Appalachian Heritage. He grew up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of southwestern Virginia, holds an M.A. in Creative Writing and a Ph.D. in Literature from the University of Georgia, and teaches Creative Writing and Literature at Davis & Elkins College in Elkins, West Virginia. His chapbook, from Finishing Line Press, is The Letting Go (2018).
