Doubt

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Doubt

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Afterwards, I sit on the altar

of my withdrawal. I will not kneel, rendering

myself a thicker chair. My kind, like

fangs and hooves combined in one secret

creature. A city without history, emotions that

echo but do not deliver. My dress of skin: this place

cannot hold me any longer. Do you see the thumbprint

of the ocean – crater like – in the center of every Earth-rhythm?

Unable to fully believe in Earthy-things and the sun in its

frame of sky, marching on and over – so tired of this

tangle! ongoing. going on. For hopes of a caress, an instant

of locked eyes and the merging of souls. My voice –

weightless as a dream. Desire is a shell, the scent of

cedarwood saturating the pores, memories I haven’t

yet encountered. Sweeping is the goal.

And love stays, but how much

is a basket of exotic fruit, and how much more,

imagination?

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Copyright © 2010 by Allison Grayhurst

Walkways cover 2

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “The Kitchen Poet”

The Kitchen PoetThe Kitchen Poet Doubt

http://www.undergroundbooks.org/2/post/2013/12/allison-grayhurst-5-poems.html

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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“Her (Allison Grayhurst’s) poetry appears visceral, not for the faint of heart,
and moves forward with a dynamism, with a frenetic pulse. If you seek the truth,
the physical blood and bones, then, by all means, open the world into which
we were all born,” Anne Burke, poet, regional representative for Alberta 
on the League of Canadian Poets’ Council, and chair of the Feminist Caucus.

“What a treasure Allison Grayhurst is. Her gift? To unfold for us life at this intensity of feeling and revelation. Who knew truth and beauty could be so intertwined and so passionate?,” Taylor Jane Green BA, RIHR, CH, Registered Holistic Talk Therapist, and author of Swan Wheeler: A North American Mythology, Swan – A Planetary Mythology, and The Rise of Eros, 2014.

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3 responses to “Doubt

  1. PROFOUND in its height and depth and uncanny shape-shifting of language to create the fruit she speaks of at the end of the poem.

    “Afterwards, I sit on the altar

    of my withdrawal. I will not kneel, rendering

    myself a thicker chair. My kind, like

    fangs and hooves combined in one secret

    creature. A city without history, emotions that

    echo but do not deliver. My dress of skin: this place

    cannot hold me any longer. Do you see the thumbprint

    of the ocean – crater like – in the center of every Earth-rhythm?”

    Like

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