On a Road

Not just any road but
the one earth, lined
with quiet, sweet violets,
a levitating mist whose eyes
are moist and white.

The road a child crossed
to the field at night to catch
fireflies and low-hanging stars
in a mason jar she found
in the underground cellar.

The road her father galloped
on a horse named Andy
bareback, bouncing, sliding
down a barrel shaped chest
squeezing with strength and pride

to stay upright.  Upright like
the saints and martyrs.

The road whose endpoint is
a glowing light, whose spine
is broken and troubled, whose hands
reach out, whose voice mimics
the cry of a mother calling

her only daughter, the prodigal
daughter whose feet wandered
down the road to the field filled
burning fireflies, cold blue-white stars
and sharp, little pieces of glass.

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