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:
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.