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But I was…

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But I was sleeping, exact as bread

to the lips of the famished. I was formidable in

my sleep, even laughing occasionally.

I am waking now and it is like falling – my knowledge

falling, my certainty falling like sheet metal too close

to my neck. I am nauseated and swallowing

so much heat that I would like to forget the loneliness

it generates, forget my naked self, heightened with

unknowing. My hands. I turn them over, they are not

bleeding. The window pane has not been cleaned. There are dishes here,

dishes there and dust inside my head. My eyelids are lifting,

watching the door. The door is warm from my gazing.

There is a river inside of me, flaring with electricity,

waking me. I do not want this grape – Sometimes

it is like staring at the sun: Imagine me, blind,

but so much more than who I was before

(eyes closed), sleeping.

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Copyright © 2015 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “The Missing Slate” May 2015

http://themissingslate.com/2015/05/28/but-i-was/

http://themissingslate.com/category/literary-fiction-poetry/poetry/

http://themissingslate.com/tag/poem-of-the-week/

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Click to access Make_the_Wind20160404Allison_Grayhurst.pdf

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http://scars.tv/cgi-bin/framesmain.pl?writers

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

https://allisongrayhurst.com/wp-content/uploads/2015/05/but-i-was.m4a?_=1

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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.