.

Chiseling away the template mould

.

.

Like cotton spread,

thinning, rifting,

my mind was sold to tiny pills, angular

remedies that did not bother with results.

Saggy eyes, thoughts in slow motion,

funneling anxiety into walking dreams –

circulation corrupted, fingertips,

the tips of thumbs, dead and decaying.

I lie down across the end of this wave,

I lie down across a weakening buoyancy, see

two dead angels on the water, immaculately

spread, those keepers of simplicity,

seraphims guised as seagulls, see

connection perfected, the veil

between dimensions dissolving.

Later, another comes to hover, circle as I lie down,

mourning. My shoulders are blown, my arms are breached,

my back tightens and will not ease off. It is snowing

and it is spring. Angels continue to arrive, solid in their

grieving grace, circling the blank space that is bare space

around my head, edging inwards, into corners

I can finally talk about. Now

I can submerge my torso, my extremities,

see under water, grow callouses where they are needed,

hurt as I transform, hurt as I surrender

forcing myself through

levels of tight resistance, hurt to not freeze, still

talking to the angels who crest the water, but I am under

the water, becoming a seed that consumes itself,

breaks its shell, sprouts, breaks

the tethering hold.

.

.

Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

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