Love is our master
The tone resonated the red heat
of a sea of lava burning away the dead cells,
activating a living substance. We held
hands, walking in the deserted late-December streets.
Ours is nobody’s but ours – broken train tracks carried,
dropped, put back together. The lapping wind of the spirit
like a bell in the far distance, calling us here, there
and always home.
Your pockets are full of roots, ones
you chopped from the ground, left there with no tree
or shrub to source its life out to. But those roots still thirst,
so you place them in a high jar in our bedroom, tend to them,
give them the attention of your brilliant mind, hurting
for their inadequacies. I love you deep in the hole and in
the twilight of an open summoning space or when locked
in desire, the two of us, giants without chains – the illusion of
isolation shed, heroes to each other’s loneliness, and the rising
of our blood that has no ancestry, no pastlives or this life before.
We are the keepers of this conversation. You are the place where
all my ships land, in the infinity of your eyes, a strong arrow spark
of awe-striking connection, where underground tunnels are excavated.
We are a perfect rub and flow, and we flow, fingers
over the tender inner thigh, mouths
braving more than kisses. We built a bridge and we crossed it,
holding hands, watching each other’s back. We take off our shoes,
a field is before us.
All animals are gorgeous, each with a full and necessary soul.
Animals peer out from behind the curtain of high trees
lining the field, waiting for us to run. We run
and twirl and lay down in laughter, like we once did long ago.
We are good just as we are. We are one at the knees and at the core.
Hell and the moaning of withheld mercy is far behind us,
we have been devoured and we dissolve –
our shells and our centers, seasoned, spring-woven,
what is ours, what is God’s, combined, surrendered.
© 2018 by Allison Grayhurst
Published in “PPP Ezine” March 2018
Published in “Chicago Record Magazine” March 2018
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