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Sanctum

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        Cedar wood, dark spaces under wood

where beetles mate then hide their own. There,

you smile, your forehead groomed

of false expression. I study you like my one-chance solution,

or steps to take to shield me from this penetrating boredom

that slips unwanted under my heavy housecoat.

        Narwhales shaped like epigrams, like the undecipherable

complexities in the creases of your folded hands.

        You are taut as a sail in a strong wind, capable of

unmatched speed, stretched, though not even

close to ripping.

 

If you were a tree, 100 years and on, pulling sunlight

from its throne, shimmering green, a stronger brilliance

than a vault brimming with polished gold,

still you could not be better than what you are –

        sitting close to the corner, on the couch,

unwashed hair and an irritated mouth,

reluctantly waking into the noon-light, drinking coffee,

salted, sometimes sorrowful, mostly spring-time budding –

a supplier of oxygen, maker of songs received

as storm-sturdy harbours, worlds to land on,

dig or nest or claim a hole, many branches,

many escape routes, many life-saving homes.

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.Copyright  © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Cartagena Journal Issue 3”

http://cartagenajournal.com/2014/08/10/summer2014-grayhurst/

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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“Allison’s poetic prose is insightful, enwrapping, illuminating and brutally truthful. It probes the nature of the human spirit, relationships, spirituality and God. It is sung as the clearest song is sung within a cathedral by choir. It is whispered as faintly as a heartbroken goodbye. It is alive with the life of a thousand birds in flight within the first glint of morning sun. It is as solemn as the sad-sung ballad of a noble death. Read at your peril. You will never look at this world in quite the same way again. Your eye will instinctively search the sky for eagles and scan the dark earth for the slightest movement of smallest ant, your heart will reach for tall mountains, bathe in the most intimate of passions and in the grain and grit of our earth. Such is Allison Grayhurst. Such is her poetry,”  Eric M. Vogt, poet and author.