I canít land on these jagged places
of secondary love - voids and steep staircases and
darkness always hijacking spaces on the floor.
I canít change the lack of water
or the narrow airwaves of hope. God
give me the final dream, let it arrive now
and bloom. I am tired of waiting, of planting
my sage and calcite, of healing only to let go.
I want to hold the beautiful fires forever, know for certain
that heaven has hatched and there is a tale
to tell out of the grey zone.
I want to be at ease in the mornings, catch
unexpected joy in my mouth, graced, no longer longing
for a place to breathe,
but to be just this person, myself -
a poet, proud.
The unhealable past is sealed,
floating away like a childís soon-out-of-sight
The city flinches and falls to my feet,
and I will not need to touch its ceiling anymore.
Simply, I will keep my secrets,
be at peace with the darkness, knowing
my breath is still mine to take,
and grief has found its perfect spot to settle
and no longer control.
Everything that has died has been buried -
the shell has cracked and crumbled.
The moon paints a womb and the pulse of hope
sings like it hasnít sung for years.
Signs and symbols do not matter,
only what matters is that which races then stops
to touch Godís hand.
© Copyright, 2012, Allison Grayhurst.
All rights reserved.