Every Broken Thing

Futile Grace
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight
Futile Grace


    Sleek craft on water, sedan
    with leather skin and trophy
    spouse. Yet half-lidded child
    leans heavy laden in Sudan. Flies
    strewn across face, splattered firm
    against skin in futile swat

    of dwindling power with not enough
    left to brush away dismembered
    remains. Like some savior's blood
    drenched body - not even aware that
    fluids are slowly leaching into fibrous 
    wood, rock or broken ground.

    We wait. As if some lofty called upon deity,
    parent, rock star or king will come down
    from bling encrusted throne and pluck her
    free. While we linger, empty-
    handed, heart hidden and mammon laden.