Every Broken Thing

Bitterroot Dream
The Poetry of Lance McKnight
                             Bitterroot Dream

           Tom –
        Roads here remain unpaved, each spring
        a little worse. Jane and I
        still depressed for lack of home and this job’s demand,
        mingling with the city’s lower dregs. Once you
        held vision here, stating tourists only stay
        for the sight. You were wrong. Now they swarm,
        defile graves, rummage mines for pieces
        they declare rightfully theirs.

        We, too, become tourists; grab
        our wrists, pound out the miles,
        letting water disrupt our direction. Too soon,
        I’m afraid, we’ll immerse and find ourselves
        locked to that same crevice. Fighting
        upstream, damaging ourselves for birth. 
        Ravaging that last mile.

                                                for Tommy and Deb Woznick