Thumb across the surface –
So many ways to die and be re-born,
from a limited source of malleable
weight and density.
On a hilltop, swinging, over and back
from an edge – crashing water below,
beat-up concrete blocks,
dead fish polluting the shore.
I dreamt of owning wings like everyone else has, but
I never was an eagle or angel, I never had a name
for the sacred space in the early morning,
floating around through changing
nightmares more solid than when asleep, sometimes
immaculate colours, touching with my tongue
the sensations of a song,
notes rising like shields, urgency,
Still secret and still cultivating,
thumb pressing into the surface,
forming shadow, a mound of awakening flesh.
Ritual of communion, discovery as
rich and wide as lovemaking, watching
for a trace of motivation to ignite
my waning discipline, swinging high
to land in the waves when I jump,
high enough when I jump
to out-maneuver the rising pile of rubble, to land
with ability, moving under the surface.
Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Novelmasters” November 2016
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: