Every Broken Thing

Shooting Crank
The Poetry Of Lance McKnight

Shooting Crank


                               
This time you, too, will shoot. Crank
off yet another round for good
measure – just to be sure. Visions
churn into nights you swear
will never end; sweat rolls slow
between your shoulders. Ignorant,

you keep your name, proud
of your reaction and pleased to view it
nightly on the news. Maybe you, too,
will crack. Break down to sand, dirt,
like so much rubble, praying madly
to wind, god or psalter. Only you

won’t find the dark corner. Months
absent desire, fond touch or another day
the way you once were, knowing
this prayer will go on like curse
unanswered. Destined to deform
skin, bone and structure, defining

years the way we curse harsh rain, bitter
wind and loud thunder. You’ll pray again
each spring, runoff dwindling down,
as it does, to water and water alone.
Destined to flow where gravity directs.

Years later you, too, will slam down
gravel roads like no one else
matters. Looking desperately for solace,
as you ponder flesh, blood and brain
matter, desperate to find home, god
or shelter, wanting only to be redeemed.
Finding finally, at last, some peace.
Yours hollow, mine clouded by grace.