May Break Our Bones

*





Down all these streets, in all these cars,

we’re safe enough from sticks and stones.

Although none of it feels like it’s really ours,

just so much steel and skin and bones



I’ve wandered through a city,

where streetlights have eclipsed the stars.

Nothing I touch connects with me,

just empty streets and passing cars



Children draw their futures bright.

on plastic tables, soon outgrown.

the use for hope not yet in sight,

still content with sticks and stones.



We never became what we wanted to be.

We stopped too long, comparing scars.

We never saw what we needed to see,

just had a dream, that wasn’t ours.



Tomorrow, all the lights will change

and we’ll repeat what we’ve always known.

But tonight the world is large and strange

A maze of steel and skin and bones



                             Brent Allard

Pioneer

*



You’ve looked for the myth of America

across every state in the union,

and you’re no closer to finding it now

than you were at six years old, looking out

the back window of a station wagon, believing

that corn fields ran under the whole length of the sky.



Now, you know that the highway

hides her broken back. It makes sense

to you, following the crooked spine,

that something  in your gut feels like glass breaking.



You stop for gas and look at everyone

under the bright and unconnected ceiling,

punching numbers, lifting handles, sticking nozzles into tanks

and squeezing. They look at their cars or straight ahead

caught up in movements that don’t require music.



And you can’t help feeling lost

driving out from beneath the lights,

the smell of gasoline still faintly on your hands,

because you know you’ll turn left to get home.

                              
 
                                          -Brent Allard