If I knew this haunting

as

Melted, swung high over the sea,
plunging into the perishing darkness.
No one sees me, single as a stone,
madness on my island even with gifts
of peaches, blueberries, sunlight and sun-birds.
Windows are never here. The truth is
a deep-throat dread, lower belly drain, water gone,
shadow in between. Swing over a mound
of dry bones that used to be flowers, hummingbird
retreats. Shattered glass greenhouse in winter’s embrace.
Nothing flows. It tried to flow and for
awhile I can remember the small animals,
remember ease while breathing, myself
more silence than flutter.
I can remember walking on high wet grass -
rolling fields all around, walking to keep
from eclipsing, determined to walk, and not
burn at the roots.


SEE

SONY DSC

I see you now like I didn’t before,
see the eclipsing cataclysmic drive,
heavy in its consumption, consuming
me with images of you and the upper reaches
of your forehead, upper scope of divine desire,
filtering down my throat, into arm sinews, fingers
and finally my teacup, drinking again.
Why did you make me see,
give me urgency, anxiety unquenchable?
Hot-lip inheritor, a catastrophic omen, cutting down
my log house, cutting up the loving stars.

I see you now and cannot see again
ideals to strive for, homesteads of subterranean warmth.
Wait under water, wait beside the fleshy fins of mauled
corpses. This reality is mine, although I tried
to make something different, tried to grow great
gardens in the sand.

I see you now – illusionist,
collector of willing followers, a games keeper,
selling me out to see how devoted I remain,
to see how bravely I live after I see, after this fall.


 

And Though The news is bad

alli poem

It is time
to accept happiness
like a decision or commitment
to faith regardless of
the mammal body breaking,
fraught with meaningless shifts
of further incompletions, setbacks
from the full flight swoop-ridged
impasse, sudden hot glass thrown
on the garden path, a child in jeopardy
of a mudslide, sliding into hospital beds,
doorways diminished like trampled flowers
but
happiness is a hug of a day-away-coming-home,
conversations in subway cars built on curiosity
and excitement, happiness is knowing God when
the rats and rain win over our moon,
is the miracle-motion extreme, tiptoeing the edge,
a wave of great mercy,
rich with oxygen currents, flooding, then
overflowing.


dead cold moon

Lay it to rest, accept
it like gravity or the
flight that lasts only moments
before a fall.

Excuses made to maintain the shrine of inward pressure,
voyaging to the harbor then back out to sea, never
touching shore or dipping a foot into the ocean.
I tried to make a quarantined country, a library
of unreal tales, a mythology without leaven.

Spear-headed, tossing, unwrapped and wailing
before a shattered creation. Playing unnoticed.
It is dark. Too many rulers burnt by stubborn commitments.
Children give courage to each other, mountains bleed.
Resting is replenishing, ambition is irrevocably removed.
I am nothing but God’s child.
I am nothing except when living
with consciousness that I am
God’s child - servant on a dead cold moon
a servant saved
(burning still)
on that dead cold moon.


www.allisongrayhurst.com