by Sean Hill

Straight, as in as a rail, though not  
necessarily as thin as one. A rail,  
useful as a means of confinement  
or steadying oneself. That rail not  
the same as the means of conveyance  
and expansion, but straight all the same  
like the queue worn down a so-called  
Chinaman’s back. You know, straight  
like the way it’s said an Irishman takes  
his whiskey. Or straight as in the last  
thing you’d say about almost any freedman’s  
hair not long off the plantation and on  
the work gang swangin a hammer to build  
the iron road—the Transcontinental  
Railroad. They all want to be American  
heroes or at least make a living. Or  
straight, the way telegraph lines run  
or telephone poles stand and ropes  
hang—the law and lawlessness. Or  
straight—what petty criminals, small-time  
crooks swear they gon go one day  
not like those railroad barons and  
industrialists and men who own land  
and real estate, who make it their business  
to do a deal and don’t deal straight. Straight,  
as in as a rail, though not necessarily as thin  
as one—no thin talk between father and son.  

Poem copyright 2026 by Sean Hill. All rights reserved.

See more poems from Sean Hill on The Fight & The Fiddle: “The State House Aflame, 1833” “For Us,” and “They Shower Us with Kisses or Bullets Depending.”

---

Read more in this issue: Interview | Critical Essay | Writing Prompt