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| Allison Grayhurst |
Talk
If I talk again,
I
will keep my end-mind twisted
so
it cannot speak or formulate
a
plan.
I
have no constitution for plans
or
wherewithal for achieving
human-made
provisions.
If
I talk again,
silence
me into prayer,
conversing
only with the angelic order,
strengthened
by devotion and the power
of
obedience.
If
I try to be a player,
remind
me of my meek capacity,
sting
me with regret and slap me
into
a state of surrender.
If
I try to enter a world not my own,
laugh
at me, call me out
and
put me in my designated low-chair place,
a
dreamer, advancing
no
further.
***
Walk
Then
the bitter defeat
was
burning like a sin
committed,
recognized
and
unforgiveable.
Then
on a hill, heavy with
weighted
down legs and
an
injury there, debilitating but
unexplained,
the challenge came
to
walk.
Walk
slowly at first, walk like
I
can walk even though the reins
are
dropped and I have lost my mother,
lost
life’s victory over death and the comfort
of
an unbreakable love broken,
altered,
intangible now as an angel’s skin
or
a hope held for decades unrealized.
Walk
with my mortal burden, stumbling without
a
path, a cane or a flat plane. Twist in my ankle, twist
in
my knee, swollen, bloated with a hot fever, walk.
Face
a direction, walk, slowly,
commit
and make it my own.
***
Small Moon
A
small moon melted
fleshed
out a sure-footed sacrifice
but
changed directions, too quickly
into
the direction of a red star.
Then
her heart was burned, crispy
and
crumbling, no more a perfect circle,
drooping
on one side, gravity became queen
of
her false crescendo song.
Hiding
her deformity in the dark red burn,
hoping
no one could see her misshapened side,
which
she tended to only in hidden rooms,
chanting
for a cure, bandaging her bloodied side
to
try and form again that perfect circle.
A
small moon strained to keep her crust,
could
not resist flinging curses from her
cavity
craters as she went out, could not accept
her
time had come, that in the end she never had
a compact core or a solid truth she could rely on.
***
Open
Soak the born
in
their own initial conception
to
remember the pure-memory-pockets,
the
truth of miracles.
Underline everything that matters
and
read it again until no small word
is
skimmed over or taken for granted.
Open the shelter doors and let all animals
in,
wild ones, broken ones, aggressive and tame.
Free
with a blessing
every
dream that isn’t false,
and
follow your deepest duty -
both
desirous and undesirous divine commands.
Under the blanket, conspiracies are made.
They
grow limbs that look like light but exclude
humility
and the thumb-print of surrender.
The atmosphere is big,
the
button-hole is small.
I
am small when I toss
my
self-determination out as wisdom
and
fail at every turn.
Mercy
comes with obedience,
obedience
comes with trust, and then finally
freedom.
The dying are trapped in their wounds.
The
living, in their success at survival,
but
the gift is always
open
for everyone, and changing
even
without core movement.
I have a boat and that is all I own.
I
see flowers on the shore, rooted in the sand.
I
see yellow and sometimes, I see gold.
***
Touch
The
first touch was bitter,
tantamount
to an attack, deception
from
a vantage point
of
spiritual superiority.
The
second touch
was
touching a tomb, still full of stench
though
the flesh had rotted long ago -
just
dry bones, barely
a
full form.
The
third touch
angered,
like when a snake
snatches
a fledgling, angry
at
the innate brutality all around.
The
fourth touch
was
perfect, a release
from
the swing-seat of darkness,
a
blessed gift that came
at
the first touch -
consciously
cruel, compliant
to
the sway of a lesser self.
***
Bio: Allison Grayhurst has been nominated for “Best of the Net” six times. She has over 1,400 poems published in over 530 international journals, including translations of her work. She has 25 published books of poetry and 6 chapbooks. She is an ethical vegan and lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay; www.allisongrayhurst.com
