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*

Yours is an answer that lets you sleep.

Mine is a question, so I stay awake.

You have a book you don’t understand

but quote like a word a day calendar.

I have a black and white picture,

packed in a box I won’t open soon.

You need a friend. I need a metaphor.

That’s fine. We had different fathers.

Our gods wouldn’t need to match,

if we could put them aside for a moment,

let them entertain each other if they must,

and talk as if it was only me and you,

as if words in this conversation matter,

as if something could happen here, and now.

                    -Brent Allard

Accidental Collision

*

Even a little is too much, if it’s blood,

if it covers your son, in the front seat

of the truck, driven too fast, accidentally,

into the side of a bus. Now, in your lap,

he doesn’t move and you can’t bring

yourself to prod him, although every stinging

nerve wants you to try. What if he doesn’t?

You’re paralyzed by what you can’t think.

Mother was what you grasped, but now…

Your thoughts spill out over each other, bills,

Southern Comfort, his death, they still whisper.

They blame you because you’re the one left.

The boy moves. He laughs, and you can’t breathe.

You hadn’t even pleaded yet. Later, you’ll know

that a lip can bleed a lot, from even a small

piece torn out. This will be a close call story;

a reprieve, with laughter disguised significance, the one

you recall when someone cries about hitting bottom.

You’ll remember that you lost him in that moment

and have never been convinced you got him back.

-Brent Allard