Building Walls of Personal Mercy
It is us without the air –
leverage, no height,
clinging to discipline not
because we fear we will float, but
to stop ourselves from sinking
into the immense dead mire dread, boulevards
of toxic fumes rising
from wastelands, landfill sites gone
under water into our heart-space,
It is us blind to the fullness of fun,
proclaiming praise on a settled angel’s shoulders.
Around a field, running to milk
the burning lungs of their breath,
touch duty with presence of mind, to do service
so curtains don’t close like sealing metal sheets,
least moving becomes momentous, then impossible.
Take fruit from the windowsill,
it is our ripeness cradled in the lonely early morning –
prayers, a battle against a threatening tide.
Watch the birds with me,
make peace with the emerging worms.
We know our place, what can save
and what is substitute.
Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Duane’s PoeTree” January 2017
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.