Dirty dish, I lift
and know I am holy.
Does is matter or mean
my feet are mine,
though they cramp,
and my skin is a littered shore?
After moving in, it makes no sense to dream about
round planets or miracles hunted down
between spaces, in the flesh of dark stars.
Blessings come like other conditions, feeding,
filling, then the fish is hooked and the river goes on.
How many cupcakes can I keep? Not many. Not one.
At night I wake up absolute,
solid as a never-touched stone.
I stare at the clock and have conquered time.
For that time I am the best thing of all things to be.
For an instance, I am more than metaphor, I am witnessing.
In the day I hold out for a fickle hand’s generosity,
sweeping floors and making beds.
What a hot rhythm to keep, like kisses and eclipses
of sexual elation.
Two thousand eons, and the cosmos continues
as a body just born.
Spotlights and warm lights, my love is my fulcrum,
he carries me entirely in the dips above his clavicles.
He mixes me incandescent colours, enters me
like wings tightly folded, plunging into sea,
coaxes me to thicken, be a builder, take what I can
.Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “VerseWrights”
Click to access 20151023No_Raft_No_Ocean_by_Allison_Grayhurst.pdf
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
“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.
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.