by Aaron Robert Allen
Forgive me.
All these white crosses,
Over a hundred now since I left Montana.
Each one of them standing in whitewash,
A mark of the end of a life.
Over a hundred now on the roadside since Montana,
White crosses, white carnations,
Sometimes roses,
Sometimes two or three in a line.
Near Pocatello
the Cross of Christ
Huge, oily wood, stained
In the middle of the road.
My Lord lived outside of Pocatello,
Arms outstretched upon his Cross,
His Palms towards me,
His dark pleading eyes,
The crown of blood and roses.
Over a hundred now since I left Montana,
And the crimson one twenty miles from Pocatello,
As I was driving south, and felt it hit,
And watched the fallen savior in the rear view mirror,
And kept on driving.
All these white crosses on the roadside
Covered with carnations
All these,
The crimson Cross of Christ,
These splinters in my face and hands
A mark of the end of a life.
It was my fault.
I am driving back towards Pocatello to raise him up again.
I have with me some carnations and some roses.
After that, I’m coming home.
Aaron Robert Allen is currently wandering the country in a state of
self-indulgent bliss. He would like to thank Charleton Heston and his
parents for giving him a literary name. His future endeavors include writing the great American novel, short story, and a poetry collection – and parting the Red Sea.
