Grape Wine And Corn Beer

I’m the son
of grape wine
and corn beer.
Drunk on heritage,
can’t get sober.

The desert before me
is long, the mountains
hem it in so tightly,
and somewhere beyond,
the sea.  No hope of seeing that
blue in sunlight,
or its steely gray
shining needles under moonlight.
The murderous angel
of my history,
heavy in ink on my back,
wears wings too weak
to carry me there.

Always, the distance
to be traveled
remains the distance
I have traveled,
staggering, sotted
with the weight,

but I do so
knowing
to travel is the only way
to get clean.