Every Broken Thing

Hanging On A Word
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight
  
                                Hanging On A Word


            He hangs there like a metaphor. Ragged, worn and
            marked for prose, gospel or syntax. As if the spikes
            could have been driven any truer. Although, nowadays,
            we call them nails because anyone can drive one
            into wood or wall and hang a crucifix, painting or poster
            proclaiming next year’s trend a “contrite reality.”
            
            Like early Sunday mornings, praying to make a putt
            and sinking it, raising the club and exclaiming,
            “I really nailed that one.” But not everything is green and white,
            so forgive me, for Christ’s sake. Isn’t it odd, the number of gods

            we worship? Like waking up when light is so dim
            and proclaiming there’s no way we can go home
            today. It’s like saying one sin is above all others, as if
            there is no equality in what I do. “So you say,” he said
            and collapsed all arguments – stringing us along like fish,
            back when we carried creels and it was proper
            to feed upon the catch. And now, freed to heaven,
            a simile, so well defined and ending in a monosyllabic gasp.