Feminine revising


Feminine revising



I am not ready

to empty the closet

and carry my wardrobe to a grave.

Not ready also to harvest

the hummingbird’s song, touchdown

on dark gravel –

cheek pressed against sharp rock

and no one to lift me, link arms, walk me home.

I am not ready for an erratic heart rhythm,

setting flame to the partition between that rhythm and death.


I still have children, a lover of wedded dignity,

animals that need me in spite of my

malfunction and heartbreak.


Break everything ever written. The trees are naked.

Faces are naked, cursed by love. Culture is never

worthy, never a strong enough opponent against fear.

This time the spell is different – a scourging wave

upheaving the weather, ancient occupations.


I am not ready to cross through this transformation,

over pathless territory, fluctuating temperatures, changing

more and more,

not ready for the monastery or

to watch the angels bleed.


I am not ready to give up my home,

to bury my key under a brick

while brutes push past me, break down

the front door.



Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst




First published in “Tuck Magazine” January 2017



Published in  “JD DeHart – Reading and Literature Resources” August 2017




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