Held still

like apple butter held

smooth on the tongue, catching

grief in a cage, on the surface

of a name – would it be

kissing or pinning a broken coat-zipper

together – once the fog has left is there

anything left to hold out for? Hold still for,

like a hooked fish releasing the struggle?

Being alive in the dream-state ambiguity,

meaning full then meaning naught and

how old are you?


Your horse, Dee, steady

in the sunlight, glinting a wild connectivity,

intelligence gleaming across a chestnut coat,

bowed head, permission to pet granted and then

sleeping in a stall, talking outload when everyone else

had gone home. It was not a dream,

not until she was gone and then it was a dream

lost, and maybe never there.


People love their trees

the ones they think they own. But I never loved a tree like

I loved the willow tree in my Montreal backyard. I never

loved anyone who hadn’t died at least a hundred years

before I was born until


there was you, rounding up the stones from every table,

sitting alone only to stand up again before the seat

warmed, and ‘perfect’ made sense but nothing ever expected.


Dee and the willow tree. I left my body and flew

into the sun.


Why can’t I leave my body and fly into the sun –

meals taken care of,

sex and you, a beautiful summer star.



Copyright © 2017 by Allison Grayhurst




First published in “CultureCult Magazine, Volume 2, Number 1, Issue 7”  March 2017



CultureCult Magazine – Issue #7




Published in “Rasputin: a poetry thread” April 2017



You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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