Visions of Ice and Falling

*





Sometimes Doug,

the shiniest thing in the world

is the razor that just cut your thumb,

the slight silver glint

through bright, bright blood.



And sometimes, when the streets asleep,

I hear my own

whispers, through the branches,

of dark maple trees.

Not even the shadows hear it;

no one does, but me.



What I say (that no one hears)

I can’t repeat out loud,

because nothing could save me then,

not my true love

or my medicine pouch.

Nothing could protect me.



Imagine Doug, that we are on a bus.

the seats are packed and everyone else is sleeping,

not conscious that we’ve stopped.

You see that ice is on the ground

and there’s a building made of concrete

behind a black iron gate.



You can’t make out who walks the aisle

bending down to tell each passenger,

We’ve arrived. Wake up, wake up.

 
 
                              
                           -Brent Allard

Station Wagons

*





I try to remember one specifically, whether it was yellow or blue or brown,

the one was that took us to New York and then was never seen again?

Which one took us to Disney World, stopping every three hours for oil?

Which one had paneling to match our living room?

They’re all the same now. They blend and I can’t distinguish.

It doesn’t matter which had burn holes in the carpet

behind the backseat, where we would sleep,

or which rear window shattered and woke me in glass,

because no recollection could make one good car of the parts.

 
-Brent Allard