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

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Poetry Contributors – Issue 8




You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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