There are sweet tufts of weeds I would like
to pet like a kitten. And
eyelashes that spark a gentle nostalgia.
There are too many eras
walked through, never to be re-entered,
and remnants of lore and legends
like pigeon droppings on pavement, washed away by storm.
I have grown too used to the drapes being closed,
to all mannerisms of my fugitive vitality being ignored.
Saturn is a vacuum,
galactic in its weighty substance and in its cold temperature
push - condensing my liquid garden into impenetrable ice.
A tightening in my intestines. Shoelaces undone
and left. I eat the seeds I am supposed to discard.
I am beyond knowing if
I am broken. And oh the circle of things! Up the escalator.
Colour-coded stars. A dermal abrasion.
Things conspire like sunken feet in the mire
unwinding of doom. Archaeology I cannot speak of,
guaranteeing a false result. Straining to sound
a faith that will cleanse.
Distances crossed, to point to and witness
the handicap of being a single being
amongst a kaleidoscope of organic tapestry.
Shifting to let go, to imagine archangel
power and not have it substituted with
a neutralizing force. Force that immunizes
growth from the throes of artful transformation.
There are hills and hallways that draw me to their altars.
Little did I know that dreams too long waited
on become waterlogged,
that suffering is not a stigma or a banner to flaunt, and love
is mostly about honouring inner limitations,
challenging them to consolidate, regain momentum then
unequivocally be breached or be immutably restored.
I am dissolved into this squeezing, into denying
the little that I know that quivers precise,
deconstructing the intricate
solidity of greed and hard resilient walls.
Orbits are barb-wired.
Countdowns counting, dictating short spurt breaths.
As my tendons stretch
only in my imagination. And these doorways become
sunsets I stand straddled across.
History is a hyena, grotesquely curved,
pulling down royal constellations.
I have learned that peace can be a pyre
were loins burn exquisite, can also be a dishonest maturing,
where desires are reduced to fruit flies annoyances,
where coming to terms with reality is a step toward
Little did I know that bodies melt with their spirits –
more than dead houses or gloves, defining one tick, one
conjoining of fibers, pulsing a fingerprint, pulsing one lifetime
Allison Grayhurst is a member of the League of Canadian Poets. She has over 625 poems published in more than 310 international journals and anthologies. Her book Somewhere Falling was published by Beach Holme Publishers in 1995. Since then she has published eleven other books of poetry and six collections with Edge Unlimited Publishing. Prior to the publication of Somewhere Falling she had a poetry book published, Common Dream, and four chapbooks published by The Plowman. Her poetry chapbook The River is Blind was published by Ottawa publisher above/ground press in December 2012. In 2014 her chapbook Surrogate Dharma was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press, Barometric Pressures Author Series in October 2014. More recently, she has a chapbook Currents pending publication this Fall with Pink.Girl.Ink. Press. She lives in Toronto with her family. She also sculpts, working with clay. www.allisongrayhurst.com