Bound to arrive,
face the mourning,
cradle its soft hand in mine.
Memory of a possibility, memory of a failure
to cherish as an infant’s plump cheek –
smelling perfect as heaven must smell
or a lover after a dive in the lake, laughing
Bound to pace the carpeted floors, trapped
in a time-fold that repeats and never lets up,
reminders in the ceramic jar, in the dirty fridge,
in songs I hear and in ones I don’t but could
challenge to be born. Reminders on the upper level –
beds unmade, books askew on shelves. Reminders
of dreams that swarmed my mind, ethereal touches,
Bound to lay out the truth
like a cooked meal, consume it
and clean up the dishes. Alone,
unheard like before, but worse now
that doors have been opened and entered.
It doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel like peace or
a place to make a home.
Bound to hold the breath of dread
like a small marble in the pocket below
my navel, or just above. Rolling,
rolling, giving way to its movement
when no one else is around, giving
honour to its creation.
Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Novelmasters” November 2016
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.