I close the distance.
I know this love like I know
bird voices, the safety-net of death.
Reach, go deep into the skin,
in aggressive desire, categorizing each intonation,
a sculptor’s scheme. I will make you a mountain,
a colossal height, forming.
I will undertake a breathing soliloquy, a measured
chemistry for you.
Moon making, matching forces, destructive impact,
then hot surrender – neon blast infusion.
Flesh and favoritism
blooming tight in the right spot, tight in the pulsing glory –
no sin, no signed paper,
no plywood to haul or candy.
Lava moulding, speak only of this experience, only
close the distance and reap.
Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “GloMag” February 2017
You can listen to the poem by clicking below:
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.