Dirty dish, I lift
and know I am holy.
Does is matter or mean
my feet are mine,
though they cramp,
and my skin is a littered shore?
After moving in, it makes no sense to dream about
round planets or miracles hunted down
between spaces, in the flesh of dark stars.
Blessings come like other conditions, feeding,
filling, then the fish is hooked and the river goes on.
How many cupcakes can I keep? Not many. Not one.
At night I wake up absolute,
solid as a never-touched stone.
I stare at the clock and have conquered time.
For that time I am the best thing of all things to be.
For an instance, I am more than metaphor, I am witnessing.
In the day I hold out for a fickle hand’s generosity,
sweeping floors and making beds.
What a hot rhythm to keep, like kisses and eclipses
of sexual elation.
Two thousand eons, and the cosmos continues
as a body just born.
Spotlights and warm lights, my love is my fulcrum,
he carries me entirely in the dips above his clavicles.
He mixes me incandescent colours, enters me
like wings tightly folded, plunging into sea,
coaxes me to thicken, be a builder, take what I can
.Copyright © 2012 by Allison Grayhurst
First published in “VerseWrights”