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Used blanket

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Single rage returning

entrapment pedestal,

busted at the seams.

Empty frame, roofless

walls, poking out of some

hole in the pavement.

Underground gardens flourishing

speaking of dandelions and

tidbits of mercy left

at the wayside to collect

like a tossed-away overcoat –

 

I wear that overcoat every day,

every evening curled inside of it,

smelling the nuances of the places it has been,

places of music and unrequited love –

beige now and stained dark grey.

 

I long to regain the taste of its first wear,

when I was the exodus maker,

keeper of the icicle, explorer of a missionary salute,

bowing down only to clean it, sure of

my perfected individuality, saying something

monumental with its sway.

 

Those were days rich with equal

fear and hope, underneath the canopy trees, looking up,

past cloud ridges and bird flights.

 

I look at the TV or at nothing, smelling

the stains washed in mild detergent,

with the hope that some scent of back then still lingers,

covering my shoulders, hiding my hands.

 

Everything that was me, in me, outside of me

is already gone and I am not even 50, still able

to walk, hold a book, a conversation, unable

to return to a place of confidence

wrapped in this faded cloth, overcoat completion.

 

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Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst

amazon.com/author/allisongrayhurst

 

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First published in “The Blue Mountain Review, Issue 6” February 2017

 

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You can listen to the poem by clicking below:

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