We Rode

.

We Rode

.

.

We rode our wounded dream

to a place drawn out like Prairie

ground. A washcloth was all we needed,

a scared rock or stepping stone.

 

Lingering there with useless hands,

many times ready for the culling field,

holding elephant bones under

condemning light.

 

We swept the dead-end from our horizon.

We lived looking within, seeking out some mercy

behind our bondage.

 

This land knew our pacing,

our ineffectual pilgrimage.

It was fire and still burns like war or

a fallen constellation.

 

We spun our wishes in mid-air,

tilled the lifeless soil

 

mourning the hot metal

that poured between good fortune

and the bloodstains of destiny.

.

.

© 1992 by Allison Grayhurst 

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

.

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