Fuller Octave Frequency


Fuller Octave Frequency



Quick, the altered parable,

which once was wise words, has become

a chapel to rest in, to find a fire whistling

and dust crevices full of infant images

just starting to talk.


Quick, death is dying, the division

between houses has dissolved.

Mother is a shell, busted.

Mother is morning crashing against a bell –

chime and resound – the streets are tempered

with your protection. Quick, the graves

have turned into sundisks, have turned again

into a vastness that is infinity that is personal

and kisses my forehead first, then my lips, and then

knows how to purge me of my sleep.


Quick, my bones are sucked of their water,

my wealth is in my organs, pouring off my skin

like flakes of glitter. Blow the hair from

my eyes, see me for who I am – daughter of the egg

and animal speaker. The weight inside of me is sheared.


I will not carry that crude responsibility anymore. Quick,

see me off this cloud plateau, bring me down so I can dig

with both hands into earth, my head raised, listening

to the squirrels laugh, experiencing the joy of a sunny day

as they twirl around a tree, three dizzy with exuberance.


I topple over, and I am made.

You are pressed against my back and I am holding

your hand. Quick


take my hayride, my daily routines,

dunk me in your ocean, hearing

the lyrics that arrive in a melody of pluming intimacy.

Walking close to the sidewalk curb – death is nothing.

You are showing me this – death is temporary, love

is the eternal bloodflow. We are all

(even the stones even the weeds)

whispering, combined.


© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst





Published in “Along the Way: A Contemporary Poetry Anthology” December 2018






Published in “Outlaw Poetry” February 2018




Published in “1947, a literary journal” January 2018




You can listen to the poem by clicking below:



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