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Gestation
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Thumb across the surface –
cheekbones changed,
eyelids re-shaped.
So many ways to die and be re-born,
endless incarnations
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
landscape-imagination, sometimes
nightmares more solid than when asleep, sometimes
immaculate colours, touching with my tongue
the sensations of a song,
notes rising like shields, urgency,
chaotic wanderings.
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.
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Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst
amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst
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First published in “Novelmasters” November 2016
http://www.novelmasters.org/allison-grayhurst-seizing-time/
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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
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