Marcus Abernathy explores masculinity, manual labor, and Midwestern landscapes in his poetry. Growing up in rural Michigan, where his father worked construction, Marcus developed an ear for the rhythm of work-talk and the particular music of tools against materials. His collection "Blueprints for Temporary Shelters" examines spaces both physical and emotional.
FRAMEWORK
My father built houses he would never live in,
came home with pine sap sequined across his forearms,
taught me to square a corner, to listen
for the whisper-click of level.
What good is a man who cannot build?
He never asked this, but I heard it
in the tap of his hammer, the stretch
of his measuring tape—yellow tongue
extending, retracting, precise as prayer.
I frame questions now, not doorways.
Construct arguments instead of stairs.
My hands remain soft, my corners
theoretical, askew. At night, I draft blueprints
for temporary shelters neither of us recognize.
He calls to tell me about his garden,
how the tomatoes lean into wire cages,
how he's building a bench for my mother.
We talk around the house between us,
its unfinished rooms, its waiting foundation.