Wire Fences


︎︎︎ Leah Marie Johnson

︎ June 26, 2025

We might want to say hello to the cows as we pass them. We might want to introduce and feel seen by the brush as we move past. It seems only obvious that we tip our hats to the sun every morning when we wake, and say goodnight to the moon even though it will not dream. We want so badly to treat those around us well. We are good to others so we can be good to ourselves, and yet we still do not treat ourselves with as much kindness as that we bestow unto the birdfeeder. Regular maintenance is just taking care of something, unless you feed it poison. I always used half sugar and half water. My father taught me that. Don’t talk to me about golf courses. We want to say something bigger than what we know how, but we are trapped in this language as much as cattle are trapped behind wire fences. So when we say hello to them isn’t it just confusing to them? I tried to say “I love you” to the mountain and it laughed at me. The shadows made it look like it was sticking its tongue out at me. I laughed along with it. So we can’t really speak to each other but we can try. We can’t nurture each other but we can always attempt to. I love how much we want to. I love how much we care. I love how on our hard days we feel guilt because we want to treat ourselves nicer. And I hate how the spider in the shower has no good ending.


Leah Marie Johnson is a poet in California.