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Building Walls of Personal Mercy

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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,

body-space, collapsing.

 

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.

 

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Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

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First published in “Duane’s PoeTree” January 2017

http://duanespoetree.blogspot.ca/2017/01/allison-grayhurst-writes.html

http://duanespoetree.blogspot.ca/search/label/Allison%20Grayhurst

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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