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)
© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “Outlaw Poetry” February 2018
Published in “1947, a literary journal” January 2018
You can listen to the poem by clicking below: