Every Broken Thing

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight

        This is as bad as the midnight
        cry of child - its mother refusing
        to rise and suckle. It is the touch,
        not merely unreturned, but neglected.
        The actualization it will never return
        fulfilled. Isn't this your night?

        The vision of burden surrendered?
        Like sweat poured out, seeps
        into pillow until that stark realization
        crashes you awake. The woman
        in bed wants your demise in this
        sudden callout - some heathen with gun
        demanding rights and considerations
        you know will never come. She
        turns to avoid your glance as you
        throw on vest and request that
        futile prayer. This night's promise
        and potential to perish is her
        anticipated freedom, a personal descent 
        into hell - you'd just as soon she would 
        depart without warning, notice or revocation.

        Two sons asleep, not concerned
        with events, actions or parents or mother
        mad beyond reason. So you leave.
        Locking door behind and cursing yourself
        you never changed lock, key or sheets.
        The house, now, suddenly behind you.