Every Broken Thing

On The Brink

The Poetry Of Lance McKnight
                  
On The Brink




They swarm here like words released from Heaven, prim
and properly placed upon the river's bank, all clothed in muted
colors. Sleeves long, collars buttoned full at the neck. Bonnets
tied firm beneath the chin - this horde ready for the gallows,
knowing all too well their crime. Watching from across the water,

embarrassed you cannot avert your gaze, you contemplate
their ritual, sneaking looks like some ancient leper peering
through a squint hole. Desperately seeking out the very nature
of God. You refocus upon the current, cast and drift your line
anywhere you suspect trout have gathered, a congregate mass

yearning to rise, anticipating the explosive birth and escape
of yet another hatch. This time, caddis release their tether,
squirm to surface, shuck their case in an instinctual attempt
to hasten finally away, reborn in winged glory, only to fall
back to water, flit about, and be consumed in the ensuing fury.

And here you stand, waist deep, preparing to entice but one
cutthroat with a presentation as fine as nature, seducing it
to swerve from its intended prey in a desperate grasp
for your imitation. You set the hook and fight it in, slide
your hand beneath the glistening skin, scales a silky iridescent

sheen, exposed in the air and sun, ready to revive, release
and cast yet again. While upon the other bank a linen clothed
convert makes their way up from water to land, the
waiting arms and hands reaching high in praise as yet
another dons a dry white cloak and prepares to submerge.