It is a blood clot

unknotted, holey socks

thrown out, birds used to

a blue sky unleashed – grounded,

underfoot. A mealworm left

on the kitchen floor. Sibling animals,

connected beyond species recognition, beyond

cultures and ways and voices communicating.

Sugar cane on the tongue,

sucked on as a child –

remembrance of a heritage

destined to remain as stories embellished when told.


Great moon of the planet I escaped from,

I almost made it to you, that far, almost sat in your

crater-circles, gawking at the constellations.

I made it just past the stratosphere.

But you know my body then

was the best it has ever been – gravity had been overcome,

no hollow bones or connections I could barely bear

to stomach. As it is, here, in this form, that body has died,

the soldier in me has died, along

with the guilt-ridden mushy heart

and the resulting fury. The light is perfection

on my back and flowers are here,

some wilted, some emerging.



Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst


First published in “Stay Weird and Keep Writing Publishing” October 2016
stay-weird-and-keep-writing-1 stay-wierd-and-keep-writing-2 stay-weird-and-keep-writing-womb-1 stay-weird-and-keep-writing-womb-2 stay-weird-and-keep-writing-bio

You can listen to the poem by clicking below:




One response to “Womb

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