I can’t speak it
it burns, melts
down my throat,
riddling my stomach lining.
I can’t smell the wet
wooden fences, touch
what glistens naturally,
transient and pure.
Running from the socializers,
the money makers, money believers, ignorant
of death and of the weight of love.
I can’t stand in my special place,
domed by a protective layer of faith
and the muscle tissues of maniac grace.
I want to leave this war in which
what I say has no say, where I am pinned
to the gravel, spoke
wheels of the worldly controllers
rolling over my flesh and spine. Is there
mercy? Is there anything
open? Oxygen? Validation?
Is there anyone to talk to?
I would talk but I can’t speak
or move forward from this death trap.
In my mind, confinement abounds.
Blood letting, leach getting, plastered
to every underside of skin.
When will it be gone?
Will I be gone, clear of this
riding, riding twisted garden paths.
Smile here, nod there at all the people in human clothes.
I am grey as my namesake, as a cluster of lackluster trees.
There is nowhere for me, nothing
I can understand.
Copyright © 2015 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Duane’s PoeTree ” November 2015
Click to access Make_the_Wind20160404Allison_Grayhurst.pdf
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
“Grayhurst’s poetry is a translucent, ethereal dream in which words push through the fog, always searching, struggling, and reaching for the powerful soul at its heart. Her work is vibrant and shockingly original,” Beach Holme Publishers.
“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™.