For twelve years
without a word.
holed up in rented rooms,
head buried in bug-infested beds,
tracing the cracks on the walls.
Nights of circling the executioner, trying to find
some sympathy inside his corroded eyes
but never finding the radiant solidity of sculpture,
only finding intangible corners to hide in, bide your time
in and anxiously explore. You were sobbing,
unmedicated, from country to town, learning new
languages, living off the charity of Queens.
How did you make it, hammered every day
by the troops of torture and captivity? Everyday,
without antidote? I love you here. Does that love count,
to you, dead long before I was born? It must
help, transcending gravity and logic. It must mean
something – I to you as you to me –
my brave my heavy
Copyright © 2011 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Collective Exile”