It happens once.
Maybe there are near misses,
little rooms of perfection that were
dressed-up beautifully for a while,
held passion and intent, though behind
the dream-like wonder – a deadness
that surpassed each sermon you gave yourself
of goodwill and future promise.
It only happens full strength –
blue flame clean, exact – once. And when
it happens it is warm as a new lifeforce emerging,
tears down confusion, shreds the darkness, and
is difficult like falling in love – a love that overshadows
all other loves before, ruins you for anything less
than its wounding intensity, its golden seriousness.
It will not happen again – even if it fails in its performance,
projecting a weak beam across the table. Even if it
straps you to the chair of an unyielding sorrow –
it will not lose its possessive claim.
It has latched to your everlasting like a hosanna
riveting through each pore, breaking the bottom
again and again, breaking through the traffic
to measure you naked and
just as you are.
Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Ink In Thirds, Issue 8” December 2016
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: