Shelter or summit –
a wood they call it, in
a stream, lined up with crossroads and fields of
four directions. Adolescent
they call it,
a dormitory of unforgivable energy,
magnificence embedded into organ-memory,
wondering what could be equal to this
collapse, would something be equal and claim
a path to recovery.
they call it, marginalized, a display
of tragedy, like a crippled horse, on the grass,
in the afternoon.
Unjust, you call it, a senseless chemistry
that begins brightly and ends in ash.
Belong with me. Belong here in this intimacy
in this fraction of time, square footage of a place that is ours,
that we imagined and manifested and will not be corrupted.
Forget what they call it, their exhibitions of
This is our strategy – to touch the canvas
with our intentions pure and concentrated
as they first were – disappointment, devastations
degraded to one sleepless night, then returned
for a greater glory.
Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “Sick Lit Magazine” March 2017
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: