Geoff Anderson

The Wall

Who claims the bullet hole

sunk into the wall of the Jackson’s garage?

Is it ours, or maybe, the neighbors’?

It ripped through their mortar, after all.

They may have found the casing next to their Camry.

Could even be my brother’s. He used the wall

the most, bounce pass after bounce pass

until the paint gave up. It sits left of my basketball

net, far from the maple marking the foul

line, but I don’t want no part.

Maybe the camera crew wants it though;

they spent all afternoon studying its pronounced

round cheekbones while the news asked about

where we got it from. Maybe they wanted to

adopt it or at least find an owner

to give it back to—someone who had so much

emptiness, he had to give some away,

pour it out with so much noise

it didn’t need a sign. The whole block knew

where to see what happened,

everyone wanting a piece to look at,

but you can’t share a bullet hole,

only grow one so fast you don’t notice

the shadow it casts over the yard

until, no matter how much sun

shines in, the wall refuses to let go.